And Then
by Zana Banana
Summary: Ch. 11: Morning After. “She was in danger. The aliens were going to land their spaceship and track her down so they could use her in one of their experiments.”
1. Wrong Guy

**CHAPTER ONE!** Wrong Guy

* * *

He saw the van in the distance—headlights on, immobile—but didn't dwell much on it.

After all, that's some paranoid shit, and if there was one thing he liked to think he wasn't, it was paranoid.

In his mind, he could care less if the world was following him because he was sought after, watched, feared, admired every second of his life already, so it wouldn't make much of a difference and certainly wouldn't keep him up at night if the people in the van were stationed there for a reason.

The headlights were an eerie yellow, piercing the dark night and shining just left of where he stood, which landed them directly on the faces of the punks in front of him.

They were in a triangular formation, three guys staring down an impatient and anything but impressed Hwoarang as if they actually thought they had a chance of winning if he were to throw a punch.

The leader of the pack was some overly muscular rocker wannabe. Tattoos of naked women and gang symbols graced his arms in impolite colors, and his greasy sand-colored mop had definitely seen better days.

Hwoarang mused for a moment that he would have been spitting distance away from resembling a younger Paul Phoenix if not for the thin scar racing down the side of his face, strikingly white and illuminated even more so by the van's headlights.

He was talking fast but not saying much of anything, and Hwoarang was tired of him already.

"Yeah, yeah," he interrupted, crossing his arms indignantly, "You're boring the hell out of me."

"You hear that, fellas?" the leader retorted, glancing at his comrades, "The dog says he's bored."

Hwoarang dropped his cocky smirk. "What did you call me?"

"You heard me. You're nothing but a low-life dog," the leader spat, "You wasted all that time following Kazama around like a pet. A dog and his master. And now you've reconciled? Just face it. You can win as many fights as you want, but you'll still be a cock-sucking canine!"

"That's it!" Hwoarang growled.

He launched into a blur of kicks and punches, knocking the leader down, then pinned him and started delivering punch after punch to his jaw and face.

The other two guys tried to pull the men apart and eventually succeeded, only to be knocked back by a kick combo.

Hwoarang grabbed one of the guys by the neck and slammed him into the nearest wall, a cement structure littered with graffiti. His forehead connected with an omniscient crack. He stumbled backward once released, completely dazed and powerless. A sweeping kick combo landed him outside the alleyway, and he remained idle on the pavement, drenched in a pool of the van's sickly light.

The leader, recovered now and on his feet, apprehended Hwoarang from behind, slinging a thick arm around his throat.

Feeling the oxygen being stolen from his lungs, Hwoarang jerked violently to the left, then the right, his mouth open but only choked gasps escaping.

The second of the groupies approached from the front and delivered a sharp jab to his gut.

"Looks like the dog's reached the end of his leash," the leader mocked, tightening his grip.

Hwoarang closed his eyes, frustration surging through him, and pushed all the strength he could muster out through a thrust of his elbow. The leader keeled over briefly, and Hwoarang seized the opportunity to reach behind him and grasp a handful of his shirt in both fists and flip him over his head with a bend at the knees.

The leader landed with a gruesome thud on the ground in front of him, and he took no time to continue his assault, kicking him in the gut with the heel of his boot.

"What was that?" he exclaimed angrily, delivering a few more kicks to the stomach and ribcage, "What the fuck did you just say?"

The leader rolled over onto his stomach, clutching his side in agony.

"I'm not a fucking dog!" Hwoarang yelled.

One swift kick to the back of the head and the leader gave a disgruntled whimper.

Hwoarang shot a dangerous look at the other guy, who was standing a foot or so away with a hesitant look on his face. Within seconds the guy had dragged the leader to his feet and limped away with him, stopping only to coax the third member to get up and run.

Breathing steadily returning to normal, Hwoarang relaxed and fell out of his fighting stance.

Then, suddenly, there was nothing but darkness.

"What the hell—" Hwoarang muttered under his breath, squinting in the absence of light.

The van had turned off its headlights. Seconds passed, the sound of his own breathing the only thing he was aware of. The lights returned with a temporarily blinding aftertaste, filtering around the silhouettes of five figures standing before him with their hands behind their backs.

As his eyes adjusted to the light, he could make out their faces. The man standing in the center had blue eyes, so bright they were almost creepy; definitely not natural.

Hwoarang narrowed his eyes, fists clenching instinctively.

"Is there something I can help you gentlemen with?" he asked carefully, eyes darting from one man to the next.

"You," the man in the center said gruffly, pointing, "That was quite an impressive fight."

Hwoarang snickered. "You recruiting or something?"

The men weren't amused in the slightest.

"Look, I know how good I am. You don't have to tell me," Hwoarang continued, waving a hand dismissively, "What, do you want to see for yourse—"

He took two steps forward, fists ready, then stopped dead in his tracks. The henchmen had reacted to his advance instantly. The two men on either end unsheathed katana swords; the men closer to the middle bore curved daggers.

The man in the center was the last to draw a weapon. Sapphire eyes gleamed as he pointed a handgun directly between Hwoarang's eyes.

"Hey, whoa," Hwoarang said, chuckling nervously, "Hold on now. I was just kidding. Okay? All in good fun."

He held his hands up in surrender, then slowly backed up a pace or two.

"Fun," the man repeated, "You don't know what fun is."

He toyed with the trigger of his gun sadistically, smirking. "Haseo is dead."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Hwoarang scoffed, taken aback.

The four other men began to laugh; apathetic, almost evil laughter resounded in the alley.

"Of course you don't," the man in the center replied.

Any self-assuredness that had once composed Hwoarang's disposition drained from his face in a matter of moments.

_These guys think I killed somebody._ _Probably one of their crew. But it wasn't me! I wouldn't be so stupid as to take someone's life in one of those petty street fights._

"Hey, uh, you've got the wrong—" Hwoarang tried, though he was interjected by a sour "Save it!" from one of the henchmen.

Hwoarang prepared to glare at him but caught sight of his sword shining in yellow, a looming reminder that he was unarmed and outnumbered. Normally it wouldn't have phased him—he'd taken out guards before, after all—but there was a look in the front man's eyes that told him if he even tried anything he'd end up dead.

They were consumed with fury and vengeance, the five of them; it wasn't a thing to mess with.

A low chime sounded, emitted from the gang's direction. The center man snarled, reaching into the pocket of his leather jacket. He hastily pressed a button on a cellular phone and began to murmur into it. His speech was too quiet and quick for Hwoarang to make out. Ending the conversation without warning, the man shoved the phone back into his pocket, then cleared his throat.

"It's being moved," Hwoarang overheard him whisper to his men, "We have three days. We must begin preparations immediately."

"But what about this guy?" a man bearing a dagger mumbled.

"The stone is more important than such a waste of space," the front man answered, "We will make time to deal with him before we leave."

The men nodded in unison. It was strange to see a single motion shared by many operate so fluidly. It was almost as if they had rehearsed such a movement many times.

"Expect another visit soon," the man in the center boomed, "For now, we are leaving. I would suggest hiding but—we will find you, no matter where you go."

"I promise you that," he finished, rancor dripping from each word.

The darkness came again, followed shortly by the screeching of tires against asphalt. They were gone.

"Damn," Hwoarang muttered to himself.

He walked out into the street, hands in his pockets, and looked up at the clear night sky. A smirk slowly crossed his lips.

"Fuck that," he said, "I'm not just gonna sit back and let them plot against me. No, I'm gonna fight back with everything I've got. And if I die, hey, at least I tried."

**x x x**

He always parked his motorcycle a block or so away from the bar to prevent spiteful damage by the victims he pounded that night. The bars weren't exactly his scene these days—sober for a couple months and already he'd been able to fix most aspects of his life—but the street fights were something he refused to quit.

It gave him an adrenaline rush every time someone had the balls to stand up to him; even more so when they hit the ground with the telltale thwack of defeat. He'd stopped collecting money for the fights, settling for the satisfaction of seeing a punk's head get caved in. It was well worth it, too; got rid of a lot of his excess energy, seeing as how his muscles were used to a tournament schedule.

He doubted if there'd ever be a sixth one, which brought both relief and sadness to the table.

If he never got to see any of the other fighters again, he'd miss some of them, sure. Of course, he didn't like to talk about it, and would most likely deny it if confronted.

"Hey, what the hell's going on?" he snarled in annoyance, bringing his motorcycle to a halt.

He had been cruising along the city streets of Japan only minutes before, warm wind catching his hair and buzzing signs slipping past him. The traffic was completely backed up as far as he could see. In the distance he could vaguely make out the orange glow of traffic cones reflecting in the moonlight.

_What's this? They're blocking off the street?_

The driver beside him, a flashy middle-aged businessman, got out of his car, not bothering to shut the door behind him.

"You know what's happening up there, man?" Hwoarang asked him.

The man shot him an exasperated look. "Word on the street is Mishima's sending armored trucks to the airport. His men must be blocking off the route."

Hwoarang raised a brow. "Armored trucks, huh?"

"He's doing a mass-transport of all his artifacts and whatnot, precious items," the man answered, "Just got a storage house in America. Lucky bastard. My company's been trying to claim purchase over there for years now."

The last few lines were murmured, but Hwoarang still picked them up.

"Shit," he mumbled, "You don't happen to know if he's got any rare stones in those trucks, do you?"

The man shrugged.

"_You_ might not know," Hwoarang muttered to himself, turning his attention to the rumble of the armored trucks, "But I know someone who will."

**x x x**

"He-_ey_! Good morning, sunshine!"

"What the hell do you want?"

Hwoarang made a face at the receiver. "_Ooh_, touchy. I forgot; ladies need their beauty sleep."

A groan came from the other end, followed by the faint rustling of sheets.

"Are you going to tell me what you decided to wake me up at three in the morning for," a groggy Jin snapped, "Or do I have to come over there and beat it out of you?"

"Whoa, princess. We already tried the fighting approach, remember? Didn't work out too well," Hwoarang retorted, "Anyway, I've got a question for you. Heard old man Heihachi's got himself a storage house in America, and he's shipping all this tacky shit over there right now."

"Mhm," Jin mumbled, stifling a yawn, "What of it?"

"Well, I need to know if he's got any stones in those trucks of his," Hwoarang said.

"I cannot _believe_ you woke me up for this," came Jin's disgruntled response, "Yeah, I think he's got one. What do you want with it?"

"It's not what_ I_ want, per say." He sighed. "Look, I'm in some trouble."

"Must be a nice change of pace for you," Jin snorted.

One detailed story and a few disbelieving curses later, Hwoarang sucked in a deep breath. "I think those guys are gonna try to steal the stone when it gets to the storage house."

"No way," Jin replied, "They can't be that dumb. The place practically has its own gravitational pull with all that electronic security equipment he's got running through there. They'd never make it out alive."

"All's I'm saying is they looked pretty serious about it," Hwoarang pointed out.

Jin shuffled around. "And anyway, the stone will be there by tomorrow. They said three days, right? Why are they waiting?"

Hwoarang frowned. "I think we need to have a little chat with the old man."

"Hey, wait a second! There's no _we_," Jin protested stubbornly, "I never said I'd help save your ass again."

"Don't be a dick, Kazama," Hwoarang spat, "You know you don't want an ally's death on your conscience."

Silence.

"Fuck you," Jin seethed.

Then; "Give me ten minutes."


	2. Help or Hindrance

**Hopefully you've read this chapter already, but if you haven't, I regret to inform you that it has perished in an unfortunate baking accident. It might be rewritten later, when the story is complete, but until then, what basically happens is:**

Hwoarang and Jin go to see Heihachi at his home, at which time Hwoarang is harassed by the obviously homosexual doorman. Heihachi seems unphased by the boys' news, and so they realize they must take matters into their own hands and steal the stone themselves before the thieves have a chance to in order to barter with them to save Hwoarang's life.

Hwoarang brings up floorplans and is dismayed when he discovers he has to be the distraction while Jin sneaks back into the mansion to steal them. He has an uncomfortable conversation with the doorman. Jin is successful, and they are able to get away without much fuss.

As they are looking over the plans, Ling Xiaoyu approaches and threatens to ask Heihachi what's going on if they don't tell her what they are up to. Left with no choice, they tell her the truth, and she immediately scolds them for wanting to break the law. However, her attitude soon changes, and she demands to join them on their quest, wanting to prove to her grandfather that she isn't a little girl anymore.

**I apologize for the inconvenience. :(**


	3. Making a Deal

**CHAPTER THREE!** Making a Deal

* * *

Hwoarang and Jin exchanged looks. The Korean burst out laughing all of a sudden, startling the other two.

"Xiao," he managed to say between laughs, "We actually got you! I can't believe it!"

Jin caught on. He, too, started chuckling.

"Wait," a confused Xiaoyu said slowly, "You—tricked me?"

"You should've seen your face!" Hwoarang howled, "You looked so scared when I made up that bit about those gang members trying to kill me. Kodak moment. How about it, Kazama?"

"You looked petrified," Jin added, catching his breath, "Like taking candy from a baby. Really, Xiao, how can you be so gullible? I mean, come on."

Xiaoyu straightened defensively. "That wasn't funny. You actually had me worried about you two."

She paused. "So what's behind your back, then?"

"Porn," Hwoarang answered quickly, "It's porn. Jinny here was just too shy to come get it by himself, so I tagged along. Heihachi doesn't want his grandson to be a prude, now does he?"

"Ew," Xiaoyu muttered, "That's so wrong. Well, I'm gonna go. I've got a flight to catch."

She gave the guys a strange look before heading back in the direction she came from.

While Jin was probably thinking something noble, such as _I'm sorry for lying to you, but it's for your own good, _Hwoarang pondered, _Damn, when did she get an ass?_

"Porn?" Jin growled.

Hwoarang shrugged.

"It got rid of her, didn't it?" he pointed out, "I don't want to see her get involved in this any more than you do, okay? If that means sacrificing your manly dignity and admitting to being a freak, then take one for the team, man."

**x x x**

"Welcome to my home away from home," Hwoarang announced, swinging open the door to his apartment.

Jin stepped in behind him. "And I half-expected it to be a disaster area."

"Nope," Hwoarang said, tossing his keys onto a small round table by the door and making his way through the living room, "I'm a new and improved man now. You want something?"

He opened his mini-fridge; "No booze, but I've got plenty of soda."

Jin looked at him doubtfully. "Shouldn't we be finding a way to America?"

"That'll take two seconds," Hwoarang sneered, "All we have to do is buy two tickets, roundtrip, from the cheapest airline, and bam, we've got front-row seats to our very own Secret Agent Man performance."

"But tickets to America from here are expensive, especially roundtrip," Jin pointed out, "And neither of us won the prize money."

"Well, maybe if you hadn't beaten me, I could've went on and won the damn tournament, and then we wouldn't be in this predicament, would we?" Hwoarang shot back.

"Arguing is _not_ going to help solve matters," Jin responded, glaring at him, "The facts are we need to get to America, we don't have much money, and the plane costs _too_ much money."

Hwoarang crossed his arms. "How do you know the tickets cost more than what we have?"

"I don't," Jin admitted, "I'm assuming."

"You know what happens when you assume," Hwoarang chimed in, grinning.

Jin groaned. "Fine. Do you have a computer I can use? I'll sort this out right now."

Ten minutes later, Jin was typing away on the laptop while Hwoarang was relaxing on the couch, stretched out with a can of soda in his hand.

"Found it," Jin declared.

Hwoarang moved into a sitting position with interest.

"Says here that the Mishima storage house," Jin read from the monitor, "is located in Norriton, a slightly remote district of Pennsylvania."

He typed some more. "The total cost for a ticket from Tokyo, Japan to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania—the closest we can get to the town—is four thousand fifteen dollars."

He paused. "Travel time is fifteen hours and twenty minutes; one stop to change plans in Chicago, Illinois."

"So basically, if we want to arrive on time, we have to be on that plane two days from now," Hwoarang said, "With over four thousand dollars."

"Well, you must have _some_ saved up already," Jin responded.

Hwoarang looked at him incredulously.

"How do you manage to keep this apartment, then?" Jin snapped.

"Let's just say the manager owes me," Hwoarang answered, shifting his eyes while Jin rolled his.

"_I_ don't have anything," Jin told him, "I've been in hiding for a while. So now we're back to square one, with a massive sum and a deadline."

"Lee."

"What?" Jin said, taken aback.

"Lee," Hwoarang repeated, "That pansy uncle of yours is loaded because of his robot shit. Ask him for the money."

Jin narrowed his eyes. "I'm not exactly up for another tender family reunion."

"Yes, you are," Hwoarang retorted, "Come on. We've come this far already. No use in turning back now."

Jin looked disgusted by this suggestion, but picked up the phone nevertheless.

"Fuck. How did I get myself into this? I always wind up being somebody's way ou—Hello?" he said suddenly, realizing he was muttering to himself into the receiver, "Lee? It's Jin. Jin Kazama. Yeah, I'm Kazuya's kid."

There was a pause. "No, what makes you think that? Actually, well, if you could. Fine. Where's that? Oh."

He scrawled something onto the nearest scrap of paper. "See you then."

"So?" Hwoarang asked eagerly.

"He wants us to join him for a conference at his house," Jin answered, hanging up the phone, "He knew I was calling about borrowing money the moment I introduced myself. Go figure."

**x x x**

"A little full of himself, isn't he?" Hwoarang commented as the two approached Lee Chaloan's humble abode, which really wasn't very humble at all.

It was secluded from the rest of the street by a long cobblestone walk. Beside the entrance stood a life-sized stone replica of him, smiling proudly and gesturing to the front door with its hand. As Jin knocked, Hwoarang couldn't help but look at the eerie figure uncomfortably.

After the second knock, the door creaked open seemingly on its own. The men stepped inside, and Jin self-consciously shut the door behind them.

"Hello?" he called into the body of the house, "Lee?"

Jin's voice bounced off of the high ceiling and came hurtling back towards them. There was no sign of his uncle.

His absence gave them a chance to survey their surroundings. The inside of the house was fashioned much like an artist's loft in Venice. Framed and probably high-priced paintings and sculptures were scattered about as far as they could see from where they stood. The windows were tall and majestic, the wooden floor waxed and even.

It was apparent that Hwoarang had not been exaggerating his financial status.

"Why, hello there!" a voice bellowed suddenly, startling them.

Hwoarang spotted a staircase in the far corner of the room and grimaced when he saw that Lee was descending slowly, as if making a grand entrance, wearing a deep purple robe that was fastened loosely at the waist.

"Kazama, is there a gay guy in _all_ of your relatives' houses?" Hwoarang grumbled.

"He's not gay," Jin whispered back hastily, "He's just—colorful. Trust me. He had a thing with that woman from the tournaments—what's her name again? Anna?"

"Well, as long as he keeps his hands off of _me_, we'll be good to go," Hwoarang replied quietly as Lee made his way over to them.

"So, gentlemen," Lee said, grinning leisurely, "What can I do for you?"

"You knew we were coming, Lee," Jin pointed out, "Why don't you have clothes on?"

Lee waved him off dismissively. "I was headed for my morning swim when you called. It can wait a few minutes. After all, you always were my favorite nephew."

"Your _only_ nephew," Jin added under his breath.

"How much?" asked Lee knowingly.

"We need, uh—" Jin began rather hesitantly.

"Four thousand fifteen dollars," Hwoarang interrupted, "And some change."

Jin shot him a look.

"What? We're gonna need supplies," Hwoarang muttered.

Lee leveled a solemn stare onto the two men. "Sorry. No can do."

"'No can do?' What the fuck?" Hwoarang snapped, "Who are you trying to kid, playboy?"

"Unfortunately, I've invested most of my spare money in an up-and-coming robot supplement company," Lee went on, seemingly ignoring the Korean's outburst, "I asked you to come here so I could evaluate the severity of your situation. Seems you need more than I thought. Listen, I'll help you out—I'll set you up with a variety of clients for an enhanced profit. But in exchange—"

He eyed Hwoarang specifically. "You can't complain. These are probably gonna be jobs you'll hate, dirty work no one else wants to do, but you'll get the money, and that's all that matters, right?"

"Clients?" Hwoarang echoed, "Sounds like a prostitution ring to me."

"We'll do it," Jin said quickly.

"Good, good," Lee remarked, glancing around distractedly, "Now, where did I put that phone?"

He paused thoughtfully. "Oh! I almost forgot to ask. Any particular time you need the money by?"

"Tomorrow," Jin said, the vexed expression on his face displaying exactly how he felt about that.

Lee's eyes widened. "Guess I'd better get a move on, then. No morning swim for me today."

"So sorry we inconvenienced you," Hwoarang mumbled, earning a daring glare from Jin.

**x x x**

"At least the fag had enough decency to invite us to breakfast," Hwoarang commented, folding his arms.

He and Jin were seated at a table stationed on an elaborate deck protruding from the rear of the second floor, waiting for food to be brought out to them.

"Enough decency?" Jin echoed, raising a brow, "He _is_ helping us get the money in time, you know. Without his contribution we wouldn't be able to save you. Think about that. He doesn't deserve to have his head bitten off every time he so much as looks at you."

Hwoarang shrugged. "Old habit."

He smirked. "_Ooh_, choosing to stick up for our long lost uncle, are we?"

Jin frowned. "Just giving credit where credit is due. _You've_ got room to talk. Does your family even know you're still alive?"

"No family."

Jin blinked. "None? No mother, father? Siblings?"

"Nope," Hwoarang responded almost nonchalantly, "Better off without them, anyway. Nobody to disappoint."

"That's not true," Jin shot back, "You can still disappoint yourself."

Hwoarang looked out over the rail marking the edge of the patio, catching rays of sunlight with his eyes.

"Don't bother to judge myself anymore," he said, "When you lead a life like mine, it's best _not_ to feel the guilt that rides in the saddlebags."

Jin paused.

"You're not going home, are you?" he asked, "Even though Iron Fist is over?"

"What's the point?" Hwoarang responded, "Nothing to go back to. Besides, I can stay in that apartment for free. Nothing beats no rent. And the streets are better apt for motorcycle riding; the sights are more beautiful here, especially at night when the city comes to life."

"What about your master?" Jin tried.

"Baek is—gone," Hwoarang answered, "After the paperwork and shit is compiled, I'm gonna be inheriting his dojo. Yet another reason to stay here."

Jin looked confused. "You don't want it?"

"Memories are like footsteps," Hwoarang said, "Some things are better left behind."

"Nice one, Confucius," Jin snickered.

"You know you're envious of my great mind," he retorted, "Well, actually—Baek said that to me, a long time ago. He wanted me to forget my past and become who I wanted to be. Guess you could say I'm finally listening to the old man. Been on the wagon for two months now."

"What's gonna happen to the dojo?" Jin asked thoughtfully.

"Once word reaches the firm that I've fled the county, they'll probably hand it over to what's left of the corrupt ass government," Hwoarang responded, "It'll be a whorehouse in weeks, you watch."

He hesitated. "I used to think Baek was the only one that honored the nobility of Tae Kwon Do over there. Now that he's gone, it'll disappear forever, and the generations that follow will never know that they missed out on a legacy. I mean, hell, if it weren't for him, I wouldn't even be here right now, sitting in a rich homo's house, about to embark on some off-the-wall adventure with _the_ Kazama, the only person I know as fucked up as I am."

A grin slowly dawned on his visage. "I wouldn't have gotten the chance to know Xiao, either. Man, she's something."

Jin chuckled lightly. "I _am_ pretty fucked up."

He paused, eyeing Hwoarang suspiciously. "Hey, exactly how well do you know Xiao?"

"Whoa. Relax," Hwoarang replied, clearly amused, "I just think she's an interesting person. She's always so happy; nothing seems to phase her. It's like the trials of life pass right by her. Unless you've decided to play Houdini again, that is."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Jin asked defensively.

"Right," Hwoarang spat, "You know just as well as I do that every time you disappear, it's like reality crashes down on her. She becomes a distant shell for a while."

He inhaled deeply. "My theory is that she feels like she's your saving grace, the only person you consider yourself close to, and that's why she gets so down when you leave. You abandon her each time you do that shit, and she feels as though she failed you. Blames herself because she doesn't want to consider the fact you've got faults just like everybody else. You know, in her mind she probably thinks of you as something greater than a human being."

"A way out," Jin mumbled sourly.

"No," Hwoarang argued, "More than that. A way _in_."

Jin looked stunned for a moment. "In?"

"Yeah," Hwoarang said, "She just wants to understand you, and for you to understand her. That's all. You've known her since high school, right? Before then? Whatever. All this time she's been waiting for you to see that, for you to stop fucking leaving."

He leaned forward over the table, propping his elbows against the cool surface for balance. "So what's the deal, Kazama? Why do you push her away?"

"Protection." The word was far from convincing.

"Do you realize that by 'protecting' her, you're destroying her innocence?"

Hwoarang's reply hit him with just as much force as if he'd lunged across the table and swung at him. Jin fell into a pensive silence, and the Korean settled back in his chair, satisfied.

"Breakfast is served!"

Both men looked up to see Lee approaching merrily, a tray of sandwiches in hand. He set the tray on the table between the two of them, and they glanced down at the rolls of bread with skepticism.

"What—are they?" Hwoarang said, careful to avoid sounding ungrateful since Jin was watching him expectantly.

"It's a special dish," Lee responded, "_Pulpo de Gallega. _Saw the recipe on a daytime television talk show. It's suppose to help with muscle cell reproduction. I've seen improvements in my fighting ever since I added it to my daily diet. Since you're both fighters as well, I thought you'd appreciate it."

He took one for himself. "Not to mention they're delicious."

"Thanks," responded Jin politely.

Lee grinned and walked away, taking a bite of the sandwich. When he'd disappeared inside the house, Jin made a face.

"_Pulpo de Gallega_—sliced octopus legs, fried and seasoned," he stated matter-of-factly.

"Ugh," Hwoarang groaned, "Who thinks of this crap? I'm not touching it."

They looked at one another despondently.

"Fast food?" Hwoarang suggested.

"Fast food," Jin agreed.

They pushed their chairs back at once, staring at the sandwiches in disgust.


	4. On the Ride

**CHAPTER FOUR! **On the Ride

* * *

"Leaving so soon?" Lee asked suspiciously, blocking the path to the front door.

"Uh, yeah," Hwoarang said, "We're just so eager to start working and all. I mean, we really need that money, and it makes sense to start as soon as possible."

"Besides, we need to factor in time to go back to Hwoarang's place to get his motorcycle," Jin chimed in.

"Motorcycle?" Lee repeated, raising a brow, "No, no. Take my car."

"Are you sure?" Jin asked hesitantly.

"Of course I'm sure," Lee answered, "I want my clients to see that my employees are just as professional as I am. Give me a second to grab the keys, and it'll be all yours."

When he was out of earshot, Hwoarang turned to Jin excitedly. "Kazama, he's really letting us borrow that sweet ass car! Isn't it a convertible? Man, I can see it now; wind blowing in my face—"

"From the passenger's side," Jin interrupted.

"What? No way! You can't possibly expect—"

"After two seconds you'll have wrecked it. I'm the better driver, so I'm behind the wheel. We can't afford to have anything—even the slightest mishap—happen to this car, got it?" Jin snapped.

"Fuck you," Hwoarang shot back, "I finally get a chance to drive a convertible and—"

A loud screech passed through the room, ending the argument.

"What the hell was that?" Hwoarang wondered aloud.

Lee reappeared soon after, adjusting the knot on his robe.

"Sorry about that," he said, walking over to them, "I wanted to check it over, make sure everything's in good shape."

The keys changed palms.

"And the noise?" Jin asked, regarding his uncle with a mildly strange look.

"The car alarm," Lee replied casually, "I had to disable it."

As they spoke, Hwoarang eyed the pocket of Lee's robe. A metallic object was poking out ever so slightly, what appeared to be buttons lining its surface.

_A remote? __The lazy bastard's gonna go channel surfing. Morning swim, all right. _

"Well, I guess that's it," Lee said, a dark glint to his eyes, "Get out there and make me proud!"

**x x x **

"Fucking awesome!" Hwoarang exclaimed as the convertible top retracted, exposing them to brisk air.

Jin looked over in amusement. Hwoarang saw this out of the corner of his eye and calmed instantaneously, retaining a solemn complexion and crossing his arms.

"What're you looking at?" he spat bitterly.

"For a second there, a little kid in a toy store," Jin teased.

"Don't know what you're talking about, Kazama," the Korean replied, "Lay off the acid."

Jin eased the key into the ignition, careful not to scrape it against the hole's metal surroundings. There was a low roar, and the car came to life, as well as a tiny screen projecting from the dashboard.

"Welcome," a monotone computerized voice said, "You are approximately fifteen miles from your current destination."

"Holy shit," Hwoarang remarked, "It's one of those navigational systems. I knew a rich boy like him would have one in here."

He glanced at Jin. "So he's got the locations of our jobs programmed in already. How courteous of him."

"And we'll head there right after we get some _real_ food," Jin responded, "I'm starving."

"Only problem is we can't pay for it," Hwoarang said.

Jin thought for a moment.

"Check the glove compartment," he suggested.

Hwoarang pushed the release button and found himself bombarded by both unused condoms and empty wrappers.

"What the fuck?" he growled, shoving them back into the compartment with disgust.

"Wait," Jin cried, pointing, "Back there!"

Hwoarang threw an annoyed glance his way, then dug into the mound of condoms with both hands, uncovering a black checkbook.

"There's gotta be something—" Hwoarang mumbled, flipping it open.

He grinned in triumph, spotting the green hue tucked between the pages. Shaking the money loose, he tossed the checkbook back into the compartment and slammed it shut. Jin swiped the bills from his lap and browsed through them, counting mentally.

"Ten dollars," Jin announced.

"Dollar menu, here we come!" Hwoarang cheered.

**x x x **

Jin sighed in frustration. "This is ridiculous."

"Ridiculous? I'll tell you what's ridiculous," Hwoarang retorted, "You've lived in Japan for, what, most of your life? And you don't know where to find a single fucking McDonalds!"

Ignoring the glare inevitably flying in his direction, he leaned forward, reaching for the navigational system screen. "Here's a brilliant idea. Why don't we just—"

"No!" Jin protested, "Don't touch it. He's probably got a tracker on that thing. If he sees that we went to McDonalds, he'll get offended; no way he'll let us use the car again. And if you change the destination, neither of us knows how to reset it, so we won't know where we're actually suppose to be going."

Hwoarang settled back in the seat, disgruntled.

"I'm dying over here, Kazama," he groaned, "I haven't eaten since—had to have been before the gang fight, so—I don't know, some time yesterday. Regardless, I'm hungry, so hurry up."

Jin looked in the rearview mirror, then stuck his head out the window unsurely, glancing in both directions.

"But I was so certain it was—I clearly remember it—" he murmured under his breath.

"All right," said Jin decisively, placing both hands on the steering wheel, "We're gonna backtrack a little. It has to be around here somewhere."

He stepped on the gas pedal, only to find that the car wouldn't move.

He dismissed it as a fluke, pressed down harder. Nothing.

"Oh no," he mumbled, frantically pumping the pedal in vain.

"Oh no?" Hwoarang repeated, straightening, "What do you mean, 'oh no'?"

His gaze shifted from Jin's shocked face to the malfunctioning gas pedal.

"Don't be such a pussy, Kazama. Push harder!" he yelled.

"I _am_," Jin responded in exasperation, "It won't budge!"

"Christ, you broke the damn car," the Korean said sternly, "Al_ready_. 'I'm the better driver.' Bullshit!"

"I didn't do this," Jin argued, "It just—stopped working!"

"Try telling that to Lee when we get back. Like hell he'll believe it," Hwoarang pointed out.

"You're right," Jin admitted, shaking the steering wheel brutally.

The car jerked forward abruptly, startling both of them, and began rolling slowly.

"Nice going, Kazama," Hwoarang said, grinning.

"I didn't do that, either," Jin told him.

"You didn't?" Hwoarang paused, seeing that neither of Jin's feet were on the gas pedal. "But how are we moving?"

Jin shrugged helplessly.

Minutes later, the car was still rolling at the same agonizingly slow pace.

"You know, I don't even think we're doing the speed limit," Hwoarang commented.

"Not my fault," Jin said, "I'm not driving this thing."

"It'd just be nice if we could get there _today,_" Hwoarang sighed, "We're already rolling. Why can't we go faster?"

As if in answer, the car sped up considerably.

"Much better," Hwoarang said, reveling in the feel of the wind in his face.

Jin watched the speedometer nervously.

"You are currently going the wrong way," the system chirped, "If you wish to get back on track, please take the next left."

"We're going a little fast," Jin told him.

Hwoarang gave him a look. "What am _I_ suppose to do about that? I'm not a good driver, remember?"

"Well, it listened to you before, so—" Jin tried.

"I'm no car whisperer, Kazama," Hwoarang insisted, "But if it'll shut you up—hey, car. Slow down."

The convertible continued to gradually speed up.

"It didn't work," Jin stated, concern tangible in his voice.

"And so once again, the day is saved, thanks to Captain Obvious," Hwoarang mocked, deepening his tone to mimic that of an announcer.

"You are currently going the wrong way," the system repeated, "If you wish to get back on track, please take—"

"We know!" Jin shouted, aggravated.

"Hey now, sounds like _someone_'s got their tutu in a bunch," the Korean snickered.

"The brakes are shot, too," Jin said, "I hardly have control of this vehicle. If it keeps speeding up like this, we're gonna crash!"

Suddenly, pale brown liquid splashed across the windshield. The windshield wipers began moving back and forth, smudging the glass.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Hwoarang yelled.

"Nothing! It's not me," Jin shot back, jostling the steering wheel, "I can't—"

He peered out the window just in time to see the front of the car bounce on top of a low, skinny median. Jin ducked his head back into the car and yanked the wheel to the right. The tires returned to the road, falling heavily and causing the rearview mirror and dashboard to shake a little.

"That's not wiper fluid," Hwoarang said, "That looks like—"

He caught one of the wiper blades as it came around and ran his finger along the underside. He brought the same finger to his lips, tasting the liquid.

"Just as I suspected," he continued, "Chocolate milk."

Jin looked at him in disgust. "Do you realize what you just did?"

Hwoarang rolled his eyes. "This car is spotless. He probably washes and waxes it five times a day."

"You are currently going the wrong way," the system reminded them.

"Shut up already! We heard you the first time," Jin scowled, "What sort of dumbass uses chocolate milk instead of wiper fluid?"

"Apparently, your uncle," Hwoarang said wryly.

"Well," Jin began, leaning to look out the window again, "Good news is we found McDonalds. Bad news is I can't stop the car, so we can't get the food anyway."

"Fuck that," Hwoarang declared, "I'll jump out, get the food, and hop back in. You just keep driving around in a circle until I get back."

Jin looked skeptical. "You sure?"

"I'm too hungry to have gone through all this for nothing."

**x x x **

_Come on, come on, come on! _

An eternity inched by as Hwoarang waited in line, mentally urging everyone in front of him to either move forward or get the hell out of the way. He didn't want to keep Jin waiting for too long; the gas supply might run out, in which case they'd be severely fucked.

A little girl, accompanied by her mother, was taking her sweet time choosing what she wanted from the menu.

"Chicken nuggets," she exclaimed, evidently finding the picture of the meal on the display overhead, "Mommy, I want chicken nuggets!"

"Fine," her mother answered in a tone that said she was far from amused and even farther from energetic, "What do you want to drink?"

The girl stopped, holding a finger to her chin in thought. "Soda."

Her mother waned. "No soda. Remember what the dentist said?"

"It's not fair," the girl whined loudly, "All the other kids get to drink soda, and eat candy, and watch cartoons, and stay up late, and ride camels!"

_Ride camels? Where the fuck did that come from? _

The little girl stomped her foot in defiance.

"I want soda!" she shrieked.

"Hey, _hey_," Hwoarang snapped, "You're busting my eardrums with your crybaby shit. Now get out of the way so I can order my damn food. Time is gas, gas costs money!"

The girl blinked, then promptly kicked him just below the kneecap and hurried off.

He winced; the pointed toe of her pink high-heeled shoe had definitely made a mark.

"Yeah, you better run, little weasel," he called after her, "Keep treating people like that and you're gonna end up on the side of a milk carton!"

He turned, regaining composure, and spoke to the clerk calmly. "Can I have four double cheeseburgers, three orders of fries, two Cokes, and—one of those apple pie things?"

As he produced the money from his pocket, everyone in the vicinity, including the girl's mother, stared at him in shocked awe.

**x x x **

"It just—stopped?"

Jin nodded.

"Shortly after you left," he responded, "Completely shut down. Then it started up again on its own, but stayed where it was."

He gestured to the navigation screen. "It said something like, 'Overload. Reverted to manual. Please check control battery.'"

"Battery? That son of a bitch!"

Jin regarded his counterpart questionably.

"It wasn't a television remote," Hwoarang concluded, "It was a remote for the _car_. It probably controls vital functions like the gas and brake pedals; a defense mechanism in case of theft. We were his puppets the entire time."

"What can I say," Jin sighed, "My family can be pretty spiteful."

Hwoarang smirked, shaking his head. "All over some stupid sandwiches. Speaking of food, this is for you."

He offered the other man the apple pie.

"This? That's _it_?" Jin growled, "You're kidding me!"

"Yeah, I am," Hwoarang admitted.

"Very funny," Jin snarled, "One of those Cokes had better be for me, or your ass is walking."


	5. Working Men

**CHAPTER FIVE! **Working Men

* * *

"We're officially working men now," Jin said, pressing buttons on the navigation screen, "Our first job is about twenty minutes from here. Ready?"

"Born ready," Hwoarang answered with a smirk.

**x x x **

"This looks promising," Hwoarang scoffed as the two stepped out of the car.

The system had led them to what looked like an abandoned pub.

The sign above the door proclaiming the name of the place had fallen down long ago, leaving only a dark imprint of a rectangle above the frame. The lone window beside the door was musty and otherwise boarded up, making it almost impossible to see anything inside.

"What the hell are we suppose to do _here_?" Hwoarang mumbled.

Jin shrugged. "Recreation?"

"You mean painting and shit?" Hwoarang asked with obvious distaste, "I thought these jobs were gonna be manly, like bulldozing and setting off explosions."

His tone dropped to a low grumble. "Should've known the pansy would schedule something like this."

"No complaining, remember?" Jin replied, eyeing the pub pedantically, "This place _could_ use some touching up."

Hwoarang sighed. "Let's just get this over with."

They exchanged glances before climbing the few sagging stairs in front of the building. A cloud of rust and dirt billowed into Jin's face as he opened the door, making him stagger back and cough violently.

"Hope you've had your tetanus shot," Hwoarang said, cringing as the stuffy air passed over him.

Taking a couple steps inside, they were met by tinted glass shards crunching beneath their feet.

The pair immediately noticed that the pub, however dirty, was _not_ vacant, but rather occupied by a slew of people who didn't seem to mind the suffocating pollution and obligatory diseases nesting inside.

There were four of them, and although none bore a familiar face, Hwoarang recognized the gang sign scrawled on the back wall in vibrant penmanship.

"I smashed a guy's face into a wall with your tag on it once," he said proudly, gesturing to the depiction, "It was last night, actually."

The gang members consulted with each other through stern looks. One, a stout man wearing buckled boots, strode over to them.

"_What is your business here_?" he asked, the expression on his face far from friendly.

"What the fuck did you just call me?" Hwoarang shouted, obviously unable to understand the language the man was speaking.

"_We were sent here by an associate_," Jin answered in Japanese, thinking it best not to bring up his relation to Lee just yet, "_We were told there'd be a job for us to do_."

"What the hell is going on?" Hwoarang snarled.

"_Your friend is an imbecile_," the man commented, tossing an arrogant glance in the Korean's direction.

"_Most of the time_," Jin agreed.

"Tell me what you're saying, Kazama!" demanded Hwoarang.

"Kazama?" the gang member repeated, a hint of resentment in his voice, "_You're related to Heihachi Mishima_?"

"_You could say that_," Jin answered, sensing a new tension present between them.

"This is no fucking fair," Hwoarang spat, "It's like watching people play a game you don't know the rules to."

He paused thoughtfully. "Reminds me of—"

"Now's not the time to be nostalgic," Jin whispered hastily.

"And why not?" Hwoarang retorted.

"I _may_ have struck a nerve," Jin muttered, "I don't think my grandfather is very reputable with this gang."

"That sack of bones isn't very reputable with _anyone_," Hwoarang pointed out.

"_You've been sent to collect the bounty, then_?" the man asked.

"_Bounty? What_—" Jin trailed off as the rest of the gang closed in around them, leaving only an arm's length radius.

"Shit," Hwoarang said, "I don't know what he said, or what _you_ said for that matter, but I _do _know you're the worst negotiator in the history of negotiating."

"Hey," Jin snapped, "It's not _completely_ my fault. Apparently Heihachi knows these guys."

"And now we're caught in the middle," Hwoarang concluded, moving into his fighting stance, "If one more gang tries to kill me, I swear I'm gonna lose it."

**x x x **

"Damn Lee."

"He's just trying to help," Jin countered, "I'm sure if the circumstances were different, and we _didn't_ need over four thousand dollars, he would be doing this himself."

Hwoarang shot him a skeptical look.

"We should be grateful he's even giving us this opportunity," Jin went on.

"Right," Hwoarang snickered, "Lee, thanks _so_ much for giving us the chance to be bounty hunters. It's always been a dream of mine, ever since I received my first sniper rifle as a young boy. Those long summer nights, watching pedestrians laze about the streets through my periscope—"

"Would you rather be painting back at that pub?" Jin interjected.

"Not at all," the Korean said, "Hey, I'm not complaining. I get to save my ass _and_ pound on unsuspecting jerks at the same time."

He smirked, glancing down at the man on the ground beside him. "Isn't that right, buddy?"

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"It's a tough job," Hwoarang replied, shrugging, "But somebody's gotta do it."

He took a deep breath. "How many victims does this make? Twenty, thirty?"

"Twelve," Jin corrected.

"Twelve?" Hwoarang echoed, taken aback, "No way."

"Four in the gang, eight individuals," Jin explained, "I wonder how much we've made so far."

"A lot more, thanks to me," Hwoarang said, kneeling down beside the idle body of their latest opponent.

He ransacked the man's pockets, eventually producing a wallet.

"What're you doing?" Jin asked, a bit alarmed.

"What's it look like?" the Korean shot back, paging through the wallet's contents, "I'm collecting our tip."

He raised a brow. "I've done this all twelve times. You're just now noticing?"

He commandeered any bills he found, shoving them into his pocket.

"I thought you were patting them down for car keys," Jin responded.

Hwoarang grinned. "That, too."

"I can't believe those guys in the gang knew I was there for the bounty simply by connecting me to Heihachi," Jin pondered aloud, "He must be one greedy son of a bitch."

"If only he could see you now," Hwoarang mused, "He'd be _so_ proud. Beating someone into submission for the price on their head? You have what it takes to be his successor!"

Jin narrowed his eyes. "You take that back."

"What do we have here?"

Hwoarang unfolded a flyer he'd found in one of the wallet's pouches. "It's an advertisement for an underground fighting tournament taking place tonight. Winner receives—"

His jaw dropped.

"Winner receives what?" urged Jin.

"Ten thousand dollars," Hwoarang finished, staring at the paper in disbelief.

"Sounds just like Iron Fist," Jin commented, "An illegal version, that is—not as many fighters involved, no official rules. Probably a one night event."

"The prize money would pay for our plane tickets—and _then_ some," Hwoarang said, "We have to enter!"

"Underground fighting tournaments are brutal," Jin replied hesitantly, "They're a _lot_ more dangerous than regulated ones."

Hwoarang shrugged. "What do I have to lose?"

"All right," Jin sighed, "We should check in with Lee first, though; get the money we've made so far. Maybe he'll even make us dinner."

Hwoarang made a face. "I think I'll pass on that last part."

**x x x **

"What're you waiting for, an invitation?" Hwoarang said, "Let's get this show on the road."

Jin stared begrudgingly at the steering wheel, his hands unmoving from either side of it.

"Don't tell me," Hwoarang groaned, "Something's wrong with the car. _Again_."

"It won't start," Jin answered simply.

Hwoarang frowned. "How can you know that when you haven't even tried starting it?"

"I _have_," Jin replied defensively, "The key won't turn."

"Move over," Hwoarang demanded, leaning over the driver's seat, "Let me—ouch!"

"Don't touch it," Jin snapped, shoving him away, "You'll break something!"

"Oh, I'm sorry," Hwoarang retorted, "I failed to notice you're doing such a _great_ job handling the situation on your own."

"Don't start with me," Jin warned him.

His focus returned to the steering wheel as he moved a hand to the ignition once more.

"You, on the other hand," Jin added, attempting to turn the key, "can start whenever you want."

"Now would be nice," Hwoarang muttered.

"Don't rush her," barked Jin.

"Her?" Hwoarang repeated, "You're starting to sound like me."

A loud siren ripped through the early evening air, startling them. Throwing a reluctant glance over his shoulder, Jin winced when he saw the telltale flashing lights of a police car approaching.

"It's the fuzz," Hwoarang exclaimed, standing up on the seat and readying himself to jump, "We're busted!"

Jin yanked him back down.

"Stop making a scene, jackass," he hissed.

"You have proof that we're not just two kids who stole an expensive car from a rich megalomaniac and decided to take a joyride?" Hwoarang responded with a knowing smirk.

Jin's eyes widened. "No."

"My point exactly," Hwoarang remarked, rising into a crouched position, "See you later."

Jin pulled him down once again. "I'm sure if we calmly, coolly, and collectively explain to the officer what's going on, he'll let us go."

Hwoarang rolled his eyes as the police car slid to a stop behind their parked vehicle.

A police officer looking to be in his late twenties, black hair clinging to his ears in shaggy layers, approached the driver's side window. He leaned down to peer inside the car.

"Good evening, gentlemen," the cop said steadily.

"You, too," Jin answered quickly, "Good evening, that is. Nice weather we're having."

Hwoarang grimaced and lowered himself in the seat.

"License and registration, please," the officer requested.

"Right," Jin replied awkwardly, "License and registration."

He glanced over at Hwoarang. "I assume those must be in the _glove compartment_."

"You know, I don't think they are," Hwoarang retorted.

Jin offered the cop a forced grin, then turned to his companion.

"Open it and look," he said through gritted teeth.

"No."

"Open it!"

"You need a condom?" the Korean reminded him bitterly.

Jin sucked in a breath.

"I just remembered," he told the cop, laughing nervously, "They aren't in there."

He scanned his surroundings desperately. "So where _are_ they?"

The officer eyed them suspiciously. "Pop the trunk and step out of the vehicle, sir."

"What?" remarked Jin, taken aback, "Why?"

"I'm going to search your car," the cop answered, "It's apparent you're hiding something, and it just so _happens_ you match the prowler eyewitness reports."

"Prowler?" Jin stammered, "I'm no prowler!"

"Calm, cool, and collected," Hwoarang jeered quietly.

"We're looking for a prowler known to strike in this general vicinity," the cop explained, "He dresses up in women's clothing to lure his victims into a false sense of security—then he attacks."

Jin exchanged glances with Hwoarang before pushing the button to open the trunk. The police officer backed up a little to allow him to get out of the car.

"I think there's been some sort of misunderstanding," Jin said, "You see, this isn't—"

The cop waved him off.

"I've heard it all before," he interrupted, "Look, I like you guys. As long as no substantial evidence turns up when I check your car, I'll let you off with a warning for driving without a license."

"I have a motorcycle license," Hwoarang offered from inside the car.

The officer gave him a look. "You weren't driving."

"I knew it," Hwoarang spat, pointing an accusing finger at Jin, "I_ told _you to let me drive."

"I'll start at the rear and work my way up," the cop announced, striding over to the trunk.

Jin adopted a quizzical expression.

"Is it just me," he murmured, "Or did that sound—I don't know—"

"What could Lee possibly have in there? A spare tire or two? Nothing incriminating."

"No," Jin insisted, "I wasn't talking about that. I think he meant—well, it kind of sounded like there was an underlying innuendo there."

"I don't believe it," came the officer's shocked voice, amplified by the walls of the trunk.

The two men joined the cop behind the car and stared at the divulged contents of the trunk. A plethora of women's clothing, ranging from lacy bras and panties to pleated miniskirts. The diverse colors and patterns gazed back at them, seemingly chuckling in triumph.

"Neither do I," Jin groaned hopelessly.

Hwoarang gaped at the feminine display. "No _fucking_ way."

"And to _think_ I was about to let you go," the cop said, shaking his head in disgust.

Jin swallowed hard.

"Go easy on him, officer," Hwoarang snickered, "It's his first time."

"Not so fast, smart guy," the cop shot back, "Who knew the prowler had an accomplice? Wait until the guys back at the station hear about this."

"Can we at least explain what—" Jin tried.

"Turn around," the officer interjected, "Hands on the vehicle. Spread your legs."

Jin frowned, but turned dutifully, elbowing Hwoarang in the process. The Korean scowled, knowing the gesture was meant to be taken as a signal to shut up and obey, and did the same.

"This is bullshit," Hwoarang said under his breath, "We didn't even steal the Naibun stone yet."

"You have the right to remain silent," the cop recited, placing a hand on either side of Jin's torso.

A grin slowly cracked his solemn visage.

"But it's more fun if you don't," he added slyly.


	6. Don't Get Cocky

This chapter is dedicated to the wonderful Sachi Gosetsuke.

* * *

**CHAPTER SIX! **Don't Get Cocky

* * *

"And that's when he dropped his pants," Jin finished glumly.

Unable to stifle it any longer, Lee erupted with laughter.

"This shit isn't funny," Hwoarang snapped, "You got your damn revenge when you messed with the car and took us for a little ride. Sending a male stripper dressed as a cop after us was—"

"Uncalled for," Jin finished, "Not to mention slightly traumatizing."

"Revenge?" Lee chuckled, "I wasn't trying to settle any scores. I had to get _something_ out of our agreement."

"Our humiliation is your payment?" Hwoarang scowled.

"Yes," Lee answered casually, handing Jin an unmarked envelope, "And here's yours. You'll have to excuse me. Obligation waits for no man."

Jin watched his uncle leave the room in mild astonishment, then ripped open the envelope.

"Two thousand five hundred," he reported, counting the bills inside, "How much did you take?"

Hwoarang pulled several wads of rather wrinkled bills from his pockets.

"Three hundred," he said, "Wait—"

He hesitated, feeling his fingers brush against something else.

"Nope," he added sheepishly, "Just lint."

"Doesn't matter," Jin replied, "Once we win that tournament, we'll have ten thousand on top of this."

"Uh, Kazama? Lee just took his car."

A pause.

"Damnit."

**x x x**

"We're here," Jin announced, verifying the address of the building before them with the one included in the tournament flyer.

"About fucking time," Hwoarang said, lowering his head as he caught his breath.

Jin looked over in amusement.

"Be careful," he prodded, "Keep huffing and puffing like that and you'll blow the house down."

Hwoarang glanced up in resilience.

"For your information," he shot back, "I am _not _huffing and puffing. I just wasn't prepared to go on a damn hike, that's all."

"It wasn't that far of a walk, lazy ass," Jin insisted, pocketing the flyer.

"It would've been a hell of a lot easier to just take my bike, but _no_," Hwoarang replied bitterly, "The princess couldn't be seen on it."

"That piece of junk?" Jin argued, "It looks like it just came out of the scrap yard. There's no way it's safe to ride."

"Don't talk about my baby like that!" Hwoarang shouted, shaking a fist, "Sure, I might have—wrecked it once or twice by accident, but I can't afford to have it repaired right now."

"Well, once you get your share—"

"My share?" Hwoarang interrupted, "I thought we agreed on using the money for the greater cause, then letting me have the rest."

"And now back to_ reality_. We're going to split the prize money in half upon receiving it—a clean five thousand. Then you're going to use a fraction of your half to pay for the remaining cost of the airline tickets."

"Why does all of it have to come out of _my_ reward?" Hwoarang snarled.

Jin sighed. "You don't seem to realize that this whole situation is _your _fault."

Hwoarang made a face. "Ouch. That hurt the small part of me that cares, Kazama."

A sharp shove to the shoulder knocked the Korean off-balance. He straightened with a frown, glaring at the back of a hooded figure making their way toward the building.

"What, no manners?" Hwoarang taunted them.

The fighter continued to walk, unaffected.

"_Hey_, bitch," Hwoarang called.

He strode up behind the hooded person, drawing a fist back in preparation. "Didn't your mother ever teach you to look at someone when they're speaking to you?"

Hwoarang appeared shocked for a moment, but then regained composure. What should have been a direct blow to the back of the head was blocked, quickly and skillfully. His fist had connected with the palm of the fighter's right hand, which snaked around and caught the strike just in time.

The hooded fighter's fingers curled around the fist with a menacing grip. Hwoarang cringed as the pressure increased, making it feel like the bones in his hand were being crushed.

"Don't get cocky," they warned him, "If you wanna talk, save it for the ring. That's where I intend to do all of _my_ talking."

Then, with one swift move, the fighter released Hwoarang's fist, throwing it aside as though the action required no effort. They continued walking, leaving behind a crestfallen Hwoarang.

"I'm—tired from the long walk," Hwoarang murmured to himself, "Wasn't ready. Nothing to worry about."

**x x x**

"Damn," Hwoarang muttered, "What is this, the circus?"

The stands were full of impatient onlookers, peering over boxes of popcorn and sticks of cotton candy to see the ring below. It was composed of what looked to be solid rock; falling after a forceful blow would surely add to the injury.

"There's always a crowd if you promise to spill blood," Jin replied, gesturing to a booth a few feet away, "Guess we should sign up there."

"Good evening, gentlemen," greeted the receptionist as they approached the stand, "Names, please."

"Kazama, Jin."

"Hwoarang."

The woman looked at him expectantly.

"I'm—just Hwoarang," the Korean insisted.

"I thought you went by your master's surname," Jin said.

Hwoarang smirked. "I _did_, back when the old geezer still had it in him to get outta bed in the morning. Now it's just Hwoarang."

Jin stared at him with curiosity, and Hwoarang knew he was wondering how he could speak of Baek in such a way, even after his death. He also knew, though, that the old man would have expected no less from him.

"Thank you." The woman offered each of them a folded scrap of paper. "Here you go."

Hwoarang eyed the paper skeptically. "And this is—?"

"It tells you your color," the receptionist explained.

"That's a little ridiculous. I mean, shouldn't we already know? We've been looking in the mirror at the same face for years."

The woman's welcoming smile faded.

"Each combatant is assigned a color," she told him, "You will be referred to, not by your names, but by those colors, so don't forget them. And don't tell anyone your color; it helps to maintain a sense of anonymity. You won't know who you're going up against until you're actually in the ring."

"If we won't be using them, why'd you take our names?" Jin asked.

"Recording purposes," the receptionist answered, "Now, the tournament is divided into three sections—the preliminaries, the semi-finals, and the finals. There will be eight participants, so each round will be one-on-one. Stepping outside the ring for any reason during a fight will result in an automatic disqualification. All fighting will be consecutive, even between sections. Any questions?"

"Yeah," remarked Hwoarang, "Where's the bathroom?"

**x x x**

"Nothing like pissing while an old man watches," a slightly disgruntled Hwoarang announced as he emerged from the public restroom.

He stopped short, spotting someone familiar in the distance. "Hey, Kazama—isn't that your cousin?"

Jin followed his companion's gaze and frowned. "Unfortunately. What the hell does she think she's doing?"

"Sounds to me like someone needs some disciplining," Hwoarang said, grinning.

Jin narrowed his eyes.

"I _would_ punch you," he ground out, "But I need you to be able to compete if we're gonna have any chance of winning this thing. Consider yourself reprieved."

"_Ooh_, the mighty hand of Zeus has spared me once again," Hwoarang replied with mock awe, "We ought to go over there and—have a little talk with her."

"Well, I don't suppose you're going to listen to me if I tell you to stay here while I go."

"Aw. You know me so well."

Jin sighed. "Let's go, then."

Asuka jumped a bit when she sensed them approaching. She hurriedly attempted to duck behind a huddled group of onlookers, but the men had already caught sight of her.

Placing a hand on her shoulder, Jin roughly spun her around to face them.

"Well, what do we have here?" she said with as much casualty she could muster after a brief moment of discomfited speechlessness, "Jin Kazama? What a pleasant surpr—"

"You shouldn't be here," Jin interrupted, frowning.

Asuka waved him off. "People shouldn't do lots of things. Like wear skin-tight gym pants, for example. I mean, really, who are they trying to impress? They're likely to get all sweaty and gross anyway, and who's to say they were the slightest bit attractive in the first place, right?"

"I'm serious," Jin replied, "This tournament isn't regulated. You're putting yourself in danger."

"I'm aware of that," she quipped, "And what about you? Are you an exception to the rule, then?"

Jin's frown deepened. "I'm not here by choice. I've got—business that requires me to compete."

"What a load of crap!" Asuka retorted, "You're here for the same reason I am, and you know it!"

Jin opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again, taken aback.

Hwoarang, who had been painfully silent during the exchange of pleasantries that could only belong to such a close-knit family, raised a brow at her accusation.

"I highly doubt that," Jin said at last.

Asuka smiled faintly. "Knew you couldn't resist the challenge. Must run in the family."

Noticing the confusion written across his visage, she titled her head to the left, clearly meaning for Jin to investigate. He glanced over her shoulder and saw the hooded figure they'd encountered outside the building.

"No wonder he's keeping himself covered up. Would probably be mobbed if everyone knew who he was," she told him, "I didn't get to put him to shame in the fifth Iron Fist—lost right after I beat that Feng bastard—so I thought I'd swing by and let him know just how lucky he's been that he's avoided me until now."

Both Jin and Hwoarang studied the mysterious combatant with questioning gazes.

_He couldn't be—no, he wouldn't _dare_ show up at a public event. Would he?_

Jin's eyes returned to her fair complexion. "Your father's doing well, then?"

"Yeah," Asuka responded gently, "He's much better. Wouldn't even know he'd been hospitalized by looking at him."

She cringed slightly. "He's gonna murder me when he realizes I'm not actually fixing him a mug of tea."

"I still say you should leave."

"And I still say," Asuka remarked, "You're a damn fool if you think I'm gonna."

Jin grumbled under his breath, but seemed to deem it useless to prolong the argument.

Hwoarang cleared his throat to disrupt the awkward silence that followed. Stepping forward—nudging Jin aside in the process—he offered her his classic smirk.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, pretty lady. What's your color?"

Asuka blinked.

Jin scoffed at his companion's lame attempt at a pick-up line.

"We're not supposed to tell anyone," she said calmly.

"I know," Hwoarang replied swiftly, "But rules were made to be broken, right?"

Asuka regarded him with an unmasked look of boredom before showing a warm smile.

"Well," she responded slowly, "I guess I could give you a hint."

_It's the smirk—works every time._

"Ready?"

He nodded.

"It rhymes with creep."

Jin grinned immediately, while Hwoarang took her words for what they were worth, looking away as he mulled it over.

"Anyway," Asuka chuckled, "Be seeing you around, cuz."

Jin cast a disbelieving glance at his accomplice as she walked off; his brows were furrowed, as though he were contemplating something.

Then, at once, he snapped his fingers.

"Got it," the Korean boasted, "Thought she could rile me up with her trick question."

Jin was about to discard his skeptical thoughts when the man beside him spoke again.

"Her color's orange."

Jin looked perplexed. "How the hell—"

"Elementary, my dear Watson," Hwoarang interjected proudly, "You see, creep doesn't rhyme with a color, but orange doesn't rhyme with _anything_! It's a perfect fit. I know what you're thinking," he went on, seeing Jin's almost aghast expression, "How _do_ I do it? Well—"

"Purple doesn't rhyme with anything, either," Jin pointed out, "But nevermind that; she wasn't even being serious! She was _calling_ you a creep, dumbass."

Hwoarang appeared deflated for a moment, but immediately regained his cocky grin. "You're just jealous of our young love, Kazama. If you hadn't been blowing up my spot, I could've—"

"And how exactly does one 'blow up a spot'?"

"Under a rock all these years?" Hwoarang said smoothly, "So much to learn, so little time."

"_Me_? Learn from _you_?" Jin retorted, "How much are you charging for _those_ pearls of wisdom?"

"Attention, ladies and gentlemen," a loud, and rather annoying, voice boomed from various speakers set up around the place, "Please take your seats. The preliminary matches are about to begin."

"Looks like your lessons will have to wait," Jin sneered.

Hwoarang cracked his knuckles. "Just hope you aren't up against me, bud."


	7. With Mustard

**CHAPTER SEVEN! **With Mustard

* * *

"First preliminary match: Blue—"

_Looks like I'm up first._

"—versus Red."

He watched Jin out of the corner of his eye, somewhat expecting to see a spark of recognition cross his face, but was disappointed.

_So I won't be facing Kazama this time. Oh well; whoever I _am _up against should be an easy win, then._

"Be right back," Hwoarang said, approaching the arena with a nonchalant stride.

**x x x**

A torrent of air ripped past his head as he dodged a wayward kick.

_Left. Right. Left. Jab._

Two minutes into the fight and already Hwoarang had most of his opponent's moves down to a rhythmic pattern.

His opposition was being careless, doing nothing but launching a repetitive offensive—probably thought the less time he had to spend in the ring, the less chance he had of getting hurt.

His thoughtless assaults were almost too easy for Hwoarang to dodge. Avoiding every blow his foe lined up for him, he attacked whenever he detected an opening, a brief moment of unbalance.

_Red's all bark and no bite. Poor guy. Should've focused a little more on his defense._

Hwoarang cringed as the rather Baek-like thought crossed his mind, and he had to duck down abruptly to avoid a roundhouse kick that he should've seen coming.

The preliminary match didn't last too much longer. His opponent crumbled to floor of the arena, clutching his side in agony, after only five minutes of fighting.

Hwoarang grinned and, after bowing to his fallen foe respectably, turned to face a cheering crowd, spreading his arms and basking in the sudden approval.

Keen eyes searched the plethora of faces, and a strange and foreign pang gripped him.

_First tournament match I've won on my own, without the old man bossing me around. _

He could almost see his former master standing near the edge of the ring, aged eyes narrowed as he prepared to give his apprentice a lecture—too much delay between the kicks, incorrect use of elbow hooks.

_Damn, six feet under the ground and I can _still_ hear his senile bitching!_

Descending from the elevated stone oval, Hwoarang returned to Jin's side.

His raven-haired companion eyed him warily. "You went wide on your elbow hooks, and your kick combinations left you vulnerable."

"I _wish_ you fucking people would stop telling me that," Hwoarang snapped, earning a perturbed look from Jin.

"Second preliminary match: Pink versus Green," came the shrill voice through the speakers, barely reaching Hwoarang's ears over the loud rumbling of his stomach.

"That's me," Jin told him before making his way toward the ring.

"You do that, and I'll just—go over—" Hwoarang trailed off, realizing quite quickly that he didn't know where the refreshments were being sold.

He remembered the stand they'd gone to upon first entering the building and decided to ask the receptionist where he could find them.

"Hey, lady," he said once he'd reached the booth, "Could you—"

The rest of the sentence receded down his throat as he laid eyes on the woman behind the counter. There was no doubt in his mind she was not the same woman that had greeted them earlier that evening, as he was sure he had never been so repulsed at the sight of someone in his life.

Hwoarang coughed loudly, barely restraining himself from spitting out an insult or two, as the new receptionist gave him an expectant look.

She had to be no younger than fifty, yet was dressed like a teenager. Her hair was badly dyed and scraggly. Tacky plastic earrings dangled from her ears.

"Looking for something?" asked the woman who looked as though she'd been in the tanning bed a tad too long.

"Wasn't there another—"

"She's taking a break," the receptionist interrupted him, flashing a rotting smile, "Did you need something?"

A slight murmuring was all his crippled tongue could manage.

"The refreshment stand is over to your right as you pass the restrooms," the woman responded, miraculously able to understand him, "Let me know if you need anything else, sugar."

He exhaled slowly as he walked away.

_Whew, that was close; almost lost my appetite._

**x x x**

"Son of a bitch."

"Hello to you too, precious," Hwoarang replied, throwing a glance over his shoulder at an impatient-looking Jin.

"Had me looking for you all this time because of a damn pretzel."

"With mustard," Hwoarang chimed in defensively, gesturing to the soft pretzel in his hand.

"Which you paid for with our _ticket_ money," Jin shot back.

"Relax," Hwoarang assured him, "This tournament's a piece of pie. The prize is as good as ours."

"Cake."

"What?"

"A piece of cake, not pie."

"Same difference."

"No," Jin argued, "Pie can't replace cake. If there are candles in a cake, it's a party. If there are candles in a pie, somebody's drunk in the kitchen."

Hwoarang took a bite of his pretzel and shrugged. "Good match?"

"For the most part. Speaking of which," Jin answered with a frown, "Are you aware that the preliminaries are over?"

Hwoarang feigned shock. "Are they really?"

"So you watched the rest of the matches?"

"With mustard, Kazama," Hwoarang insisted, waving the last piece of pretzel in front of his companion's face before tossing it into the depths of his mouth, "The fancy kind, too. It's got a little zing to it. You should try it sometime."

"Dumbass," Jin spat, "If you watched the preliminaries, you'd have an idea of who you'll be up against in the semifinals. And, if you committed the colors announced at the beginning of each round to memory, you'd know exactly who you're facing when your match is called."

The Korean raised a brow in amusement.

"Guess I'm lucky I'm fucking awesome then, huh? I'll beat every one of these punks down, even you if I have to. I don't need to know who I'm fighting; the outcome will always be the same. Unless, of course," he added with a smirk, "I'm up against your cousin, and one of my hands _happens_ to slip—"

"Just _wait_ until it's all over," Jin growled.

"If I was wearing boots, I'd be trembling in them. Honestly."

The speakers crackled noisily.

"The semifinal matches will begin now," boomed the announcer, "The first round is Blue versus Orange."

"Sounds like I'm up again," Hwoarang said, lobbing a crumpled napkin into the nearest trash receptacle, "The crowd just can't get enough of me."

He thought he saw Jin shake his head knowingly as he departed for the arena.

**x x x**

"—might be the first forfeit of the night—"

Hwoarang folded his arms across his chest, eyes fixed on the opposing—and desolate—half of the stone ring.

"—too dignified to face such—"

"Watch it, pal!" Hwoarang shouted to no one in particular.

He'd started to search for the stand the announcer was broadcasting from with an angry glare when the sound of footsteps echoing on concrete reached him. Returning his attention to the other end of the ring almost impatiently, he was surprised by the presence of the hooded fighter, face still masked in shadow.

"Nice of you to show up," Hwoarang scoffed, determined to remain calm despite the knot of dread forming in his throat.

"I thought so, too," his foe replied with an equal dose of sarcasm.

"You were the one who tried to attack me outside the building," they added after a brief pause.

"That's what you get for forgetting your manners," Hwoarang responded, smirking.

"Should've recognized your voice."

Hwoarang regarded the hooded fighter inquisitively.

_Voice? _

He clenched his fists at his sides.

_Come to think of it, their voice sounds different, strained even—like they're forcing it to be deeper or something. Doesn't sound very feminine, though; probably a guy._

"Any chance you feel like telling me who you are and why you think you know me?"

The hooded person fell into a fighting stance.

"You'll figure it out," they replied, amusement evident in their tone, "Let's start now."

_Enough about this dude's identity crisis; I've gotta concentrate on his fighting style if I want to beat him. He almost crushed my damn hand earlier, so logically I should watch out for his punches more so than his kicks, as he probably spent more time—_

A wave of dizziness swept over Hwoarang.

He blinked slowly, a puzzled look on his face. "What the fuck—"

But there was no time to investigate; his opponent had already charged.

The first punch was a narrow miss—correction, the first _three_ punches. Hwoarang noticed that his reaction time was significantly slower than it had been during his preliminary fight.

_Did this guy swallow jet fuel or something? His combinations are coming too fast for me to anticipate, and he keeps moving, pivoting around unpredictably. Hell, I can't even lay a hand on him!_

It wasn't long before the inevitable happened; his deflection was off by a fraction of a second, just enough time for his foe's fist to fly forward and connect with his abdomen.

"I expected more from you," sneered the hooded fighter.

Hwoarang frowned at the dull pain twisting through him.

_If only I could get some _space!

Deciding that strategy was as good as any, he switched to offensive and tried one of his mid-range kicks. It went through, pushing the other combatant back a good distance, but the delay didn't keep his opponent away for long.

"Not gonna give me a break?"

"First rule," the hooded fighter responded, regaining composure and approaching with twice as much speed, "Never let your opposition rest. Stay close. Don't give them a chance to formulate a plan against you."

"I thought the first rule was that you couldn't talk about Fight Club."

His foe stomped down on his left foot and, utilizing the distraction, landed two consecutive blows—one to his upper chest, one to the back of his knee. He stumbled back, and suddenly the unforgiving gray of the arena was rushing up, and all he could hear was—

"_The party has arrived!" he shouted into the sunlit dojo, grinning broadly._

_A gust of air brushed past his side. A sharp yank on his ear made him grimace._

"_Hey! Let me go, damnit!" _

_Hwoarang looked up at the stern visage of his mentor._

"_You," Baek said smoothly, tightening his grip on the sensitive lobe, "Are late. Again."_

_He reached up and dislodged the older man's hold on him disdainfully. "Overslept."_

_Baek studied his pupil's disposition carefully. _

_"Out._ Again_," he sighed, "What were you doing last night?"_

_The boastful smirk was difficult to miss. "You know, I can't recall her name."_

_His mentor snatched his ear once again. "Disrespectful!"_

"_It was _just_ a joke, old man," he insisted, wrenching free, "Where's your sense of humor?"_

"_The Iron Fist tournament is approaching, and if you do not train every day, you will lose in the first round," Baek replied solemnly, "You are already behind. If you continue to neglect your martial arts, I will leave you to fend for yourself."_

_Hwoarang frowned. "All right, all right. I understand."_

"_Good. Now, since you were undoubtedly up all night partaking in immature mischief—_again—_your training today will focus on how to fight when you've exhausted most of your energy. This will come into play in the latter rounds of the tournament, when you've dealt many blows and taken even more, and are mentally and physically drained."_

_He bowed his head. "Yes, master."_

"_The best way to deal with such a dilemma," Baek went on, "Is to take a hit to the face."_

_Hwoarang grinned. "So you've finally lost it."_

_His mentor thumped him on the back of the head with a closed fist. "Do not doubt your master."_

"_You're certainly violent this morning," he remarked through gritted teeth._

"_I am not suggesting, of course, that you let yourself receive a full-fledged hit," Baek told him, "You will lead your opponent to believe you have let your guard down, and they will attempt to come at you." _

_He raised a fist and brought it increasingly closer to his student's face. "At the last second, you will turn your head to the side slightly. This will cushion the blow enough to keep you conscious."_

_Hwoarang jerked his head to the right. "And I'm doing this because?"_

"_The impact will force your senses to snap to attention," Baek answered, "It will not last for the entire fight, but a temporary burst of awareness may be all you need to get your opponent pinned." _

_His fist grazed his pupil's cheekbone._

_Hwoarang backed up a few paces, cradling the side of his face. "Man, you didn't _actually_ have to hit me! I got the basic idea."_

_His mentor gave him a small grin. "Alert now?"_

Hwoarang groaned as he opened his eyes.

He was trapped, next to defenseless while on the floor. The hooded fighter was standing over him and, though he couldn't make out their face, he was willing to bet that they were smirking triumphantly.

"Last words?"

"What about them?" Hwoarang responded, inwardly swearing.

"You always were a funny one."

He tensed.

_Here goes nothing._

The hooded fighter wasted no time; their fist flew through the air with dangerous intent.

The Korean waited a few seconds before attempting to put his arms up in defense. Just as he'd expected, his opponent reached through his makeshift barricade with almost no effort.

Swinging his head to the side, he heard his face scream in agony as his chin redirected the rough hit. He felt a jolt seize his mind, and before he knew what was happening he was standing again, having shoved his foe backward onto the cement.

Hwoarang grinned slightly.

_If anyone asks, I'm telling them I figured it out on my own, old man. _

"Looks like it's _my_ turn now."


	8. Conflicting Interests

**CHAPTER EIGHT! **Conflicting Interests

* * *

Despite Hwoarang's abrupt, and very temporary, recovery, his opponent looked anything but worried about the change of events.

"I just bought this jacket, mate," his foe chuckled, rolling back and rising to their feet, "Try not to dirty it, will you?"

_Mate?_

The hooded fighter dipped down slightly. He was preparing for a devastating punch.

The delay in what had proved to be a barreling offensive provided Hwoarang with an opportunity to strike.

The chain of events that happened next could only be described as a desperate man's attempt to secure a fast victory, though Hwoarang would never admit it.

He acted impulsively, launching every kick combination that came to mind right after one another. His opponent continued to stand up, though he was becoming noticeably exhausted by the effort it required.

The Korean could feel the newfound energy draining. The surrounding crowd began to blur, the colors of their shirts and faces running together like a bleeding canvas.

Riding a wavering swell of momentum, Hwoarang lunged forward, tackling his foe to the ground. Given insufficient time to react, the other man's body connected with the harsh ring in an awkward manner, causing the thick hood to slide back.

"Had a funny feeling it was you," Hwoarang snickered.

He stared down at the rather pasty complexion of the champion boxer, expecting some kind of attempted wit in return. He instead received a pair of bulging blue eyes and an alarmingly loud shout.

"My arm!"

Puzzled, Hwoarang instinctively shifted his gaze to the other man's limbs—and found that all of his weight was bearing down on his right arm.

**x x x**

"You sat on him?" Jin repeated incredulously.

Hwoarang frowned. "_Knelt_, not sat. And hey, it was enough to get me into the finals, so—"

"You!"

Both guys turned toward the outburst. Asuka was stomping in their direction, an unpleasant look on her face.

"You're in for it now," said Jin with a light chuckle.

Asuka stopped a few inches short of the Korean's nose and scrunched her own in frustration.

"Who do you think you are? Using some cheap trick to take the only fighter worth sticking around here for—" She cast a sideways glance at Jin. "No offense—out of the competition before I could go up against him!"

Hwoarang held up a hand in defense. "It's not like I _planned_ on—"

"Shut up! I wasn't finished," she snapped, startling both men, "Putting all your weight on the guy's arm? He's a boxer; you knew he couldn't fight well after that. You're no better than that moronic sumo wrestler from Iron Fist!"

"Hey," Hwoarang replied sharply, "Don't you _dare_ compare me to that useless tub of lard."

Asuka backed up a pace, resting both hands on her hips as she gave him an unimpressed look-over. "Some big words coming from—"

"The last semifinal match will be conducted now," the announcer relayed over the speakers, "Green versus Yellow."

"That's me," both Asuka and Jin said at once.

"_This_ should be interesting," Hwoarang commented under his breath.

Asuka regarded Jin with a small smile. "See you in the arena, cuz."

"I'll be rooting for you, babe," the Korean called after her retreating figure.

"Jerk," came her muffled response.

Hwoarang turned to Jin. "I'll definitely be rooting for you, man. You _have_ to win. I'm in no position to lose to a girl, considering my reputation and all."

Jin smirked. "You're telling me you're intimidated by a seventeen-year-old?"

"Of course not," Hwoarang answered defensively, "It's pure strategy. If it comes down to you and I in the finals, it doesn't matter which way the match goes—we get the prize money. If she makes it, I'll have to beat her down and make her cry, which will seriously jeopardize the intensity of our hot fling in the backseat."

"I can't make any promises," Jin told him after an elongated glare, "She's good. She uses inspiration from my mother's fighting style, you know."

"Regardless," Hwoarang replied, "Show her who's boss!"

**x x x**

There was no doubt about it. This _had_ to be the longest match in recorded history.

Hwoarang's leg started to shake with impatience.

_Is Kazama playing around or what? It should have been over and done with by now!_

He took another sip of the energy drink he'd procured from the refreshment stand and shook his head as a sour shock bubbled inside his mouth.

The Korean engorged himself in the motions of the combat taking place. Something wasn't quite right about it. He watched Jin's footwork critically, observed each parry and combination arrangement with criminally precise intent.

_Wait a minute. _

He leaned forward in his seat a bit.

_He just misjudged that hit on purpose._

He narrowed his eyes in concentration.

_He's been missing nearly _all _of his hits on purpose. I've gone up against him enough times to know that he never_ _uses that awkward transition from high kick to low punch. In fact, he never uses _any_ of these moves._

"Shit," he muttered to himself.

_Either I'm completely imagining it, or he's not using his fighting style._

Jumping to his feet, Hwoarang gestured to the arena angrily with the hand holding the drink, causing it to splash over the sides of the aluminum can.

"You pansy motherfucker! You'd better start landing some _real_ damage or I'll—"

A hush fell over the entire body of the audience, followed by an eruption of amused roars and catcalls. Asuka had performed a graceful back flip, catching Jin's chin and hoisting him into the air with utmost skill.

Hwoarang slammed his empty palm against his forehead.

"I'm fucked."

**x x x**

"You should've at least _told_ me you were gonna pussy out," Hwoarang snapped, "I could have pounded some sense into you before you went out there and screwed everything up."

Jin crossed his arms indignantly.

"I didn't lose purposefully," he insisted, "I was fighting to win, and apparently so was she. It was a decision of skill."

"More like you went easy on her for some retarded, most likely illogical reason," Hwoarang retorted, "You didn't think I'd notice you weren't using your normal style?"

His accomplice seemed taken aback for a moment.

"Call it a conflict of interest," sighed Jin, "In any case, you should be happy. You wanted to face her, right?"

"Don't have a choice now," Hwoarang murmured.

"You're not planning on falling asleep on your feet, are you?" Jin asked, "Everything we've been working for depends on your victory."

The Korean grinned confidently. "Don't worry about me. I drank enough energy crap to permanently lower my sperm count."

"Glad you decided to do the gene pool a favor."

Asuka approached them, stopping beside Jin with a competitive shimmer to her eyes. "The ten thousand is as good as mine. I'll bet Father won't be so angry when he sees _that_."

"Sorry, beautiful, but unlike my wimp of a pal here, I'm not in the mood to hand out any favors," Hwoarang replied.

"We can always settle the dispute over who gets to be on top later," he added with a wink.

Asuka exchanged annoyed looks with Jin before rolling her eyes. "I'm going to take great pleasure in beating you down out there."

"I'm counting on it," Hwoarang said, smirking.

He watched as she silently conferred with Jin for a final time, then spun around to walk toward the arena, one leg clearly lagging behind the other.

"If you're done bra-cessing my little cousin," Jin said with slight irritation in his tone, "You should know that you're going about it the wrong way. She doesn't go for perverts."

Hwoarang snapped back to attention, having been temporarily immersed in thought as he observed her exit.

"Good to know," he commented, "I'll let the perverts know when I see them."

He moved to start toward the ring and felt a firm hand grip his shoulder.

"I hope you realize what you're getting yourself into," sounded Jin's voice from behind him, "Win this, and we walk away that much closer to saving your ass. Lose, and we have to work for Lee to accrue the rest of the sum."

Hwoarang cringed.

_I can't give that fag the satisfaction of putting us through more worthless torture. _

He looked ahead and caught a glimpse of Asuka entering her side of the arena.

_Damn Lee._

**x x x**

"You sure?" Asuka taunted, tugging her combat gloves into place, "You sure you wanna fight me?"

"Hell yeah," Hwoarang answered with a smirk.

His gaze swept from one end of the arena to the other as he tried to measure the amount of space surrounding him.

_I've seen her fight before. Gotta make sure I keep out of range so she can't rope me into one of those jab combinations._

It didn't take long for her to assume the offensive. Hwoarang readily switched the positioning of his feet, watching closely as she advanced.

Asuka slowed considerably as she neared him. A slight grin crossed his lips as he prepared to duck down for a low block.

At the last possible second, she pulled back a bit, then reached out with both hands and apprehended his left wrist. He could feel the increased pressure of her fingernails against his skin. She turned away slightly, forced him off his feet, and twisted his arm, causing him to flip over her shoulder and land rather uncomfortably.

_Son of a—she faked me out!_

From his location on the ground, Hwoarang could see that she planned to continue her assault with a cartwheel attack meant for fallen opponents.

"I don't think so," he chided through gritted teeth, throwing himself aside just as her feet came crashing down.

He recovered quickly, lurching to his feet in just enough time to evade an agile low kick. He jumped back, a concerted snarl replacing the grin on his visage.

The two combatants locked eyes. Both stood, immobile, their fists poised for battle. A pensive countenance had claimed Asuka, though she seemed to be hesitant.

Then, in an instant, they charged simultaneously.

Hwoarang, who'd been set on launching a combination of kicks, had his objective foiled. As soon as he got close enough, she attempted to initiate one of the many chains of punches up her sleeve, making him abandon his original purpose in order to deflect each of her hits successfully.

Hit after hit failed as he swatted her fists to the side, as she dodged his kicks, as each of them swung their head to the side to avoid direct blows.

The rhythm of the futile attacks pounded a certain regime of timing and intangibility into his mind, the soundtrack of his personal wartime dilemma. Frustrated, both fighters unleashed a right jab in unison—and caught the other's fist in the palm of their untenanted hand.

"Tired?" Asuka scoffed, her own voice not far from a pant.

"Not yet," Hwoarang rebutted, though a trace of exhaustion was present in his tone.

The pair flew apart moments later, gaining significant distance with momentum stolen from pushing against one another.

He barely noticed her change the direction of her retreat.

Asuka moved swiftly, following an invisible arch around his right side. She paused briefly before spinning on the balls of her feet. One, two, three elegant rotations, and she extended her left leg. The outstretched limb caught him off-guard, and the kick, made even more powerful by the amplified impulsion, connected.

Hwoarang stumbled vulnerably with an anguished groan, but, determined to keep his balance, remained standing.

"That was—" His breath left him, and he fell to his knees.

Though the effort required to use such an elaborate strike had fatigued her, Asuka managed to snicker, "Clever? I thought so myself."

"No," Hwoarang ground out, earning him a bewildered glower, "Incredibly stupid."

"What did you say?" Asuka shot back angrily.

She used both hands to grab him by his shirt, fisting the pliable material with tenacity. Drawing him up to her height, she made certain she'd captured his gaze before retracting a leg and thrusting her knee right into his—

The Korean crumpled once released from her vengeful grasp, pain evident in his expression. The arena, the spectators, his opponent—everything spun out of focus, and he was reminded of the times he used to watch other children at the playground propel the roundabout as fast as they could, simply to witness the unfortunate victims suffer from the dizzy disorientation that always came afterward.

This time was different from those, though, because he was longer the outsider looking in, and he wanted nothing more than for the fucking ride to stop.

He had to get up, had to keep going, for two reasons.

One—he, a dignified fighter and former gang leader, was not about to let some pansy boss him around for the next twenty-four hours.

Two—in a single fleeting second, his enemy had provided him with the ammunition that would clinch her defeat.

Rolling back onto his feet induced a minor wince, but Hwoarang overcame the agony, knowing the promise of victory was so close at hand. He tried a swiping low kick.

Asuka avoided it, as he'd expected she would, by hopping back a few paces. She assumed her fighting stance, a look of displeased curiosity reigning over her complexion.

"It's useless," she told him, "Face it. I've won."

"Not quite." Hwoarang staggered as he stood, his trademark smug smirk once again intact.

He allowed his eyes to ease shut, partially due to amusement, but mostly because of the throbbing soreness.

"You know," he said slowly, "Your dear cousin and I—we're almost complete opposites."

He hesitated. "While my training usually consists of working on new kicks, he develops increasingly powerful punches. I guess you could say we compliment each other."

Asuka sighed impatiently. "Where are you going with this?"

"Thought you'd never ask," Hwoarang replied, "See, I thought Kazama had left me completely high and dry after his humiliating loss, but in actuality he'd given me a trump card—I just had to wait until the right moment to turn it over."

He opened his eyes and leveled a hard stare onto her. "That was some kick you hit me with. There's just one problem."

His grin broadened. "You delivered it with your left leg."

She arched an eyebrow. "And your point is?"

"My point," Hwoarang remarked, "Is that in every other fight you've been in, you used your right leg to kick, the left for stability."

He gestured to her ankle with a nod of his head. "Why the sudden change?"

"All this talking is just a pathetic way to delay the inevitable," Asuka spat, "I'm ending it once and for all!"

"Your second mistake," he sneered as she ran toward him.

_He narrowed his eyes in concentration. _

_Kazama's low punch must've bruised her right ankle; that's why she hasn't been using that leg to attack me._

In her haste, Asuka had neglected to think her sprint all the way through. Her last step landed her right foot in front and left it exposed. Seized by the realization, she attempted to skid to a stop, but it was too late.

He initiated two kicks; the first to knock her off-balance, the second to heave her into the air. The weakness of her leading ankle made the procedure particularly easy.

Taking advantage of her compromising position, Hwoarang released consecutive chains of kicks, convinced he needed to keep her off the ground for as long as possible. His finishing strike caught her by the abdomen, spun her around, then slammed her down onto the hardened concrete.

Asuka's cries of suffering echoed throughout the arena.


	9. Winding Up

**CHAPTER NINE! **Winding Up

* * *

The varying reactions of the crowd were nearly deafening.

Hwoarang reeled a bit, his breathing reduced to ragged wheezes. He remained slightly crouched, the final position of the last combination he'd performed, and left his arms dangling loosely at his sides.

He vaguely heard an announcement blare over the intercom. The words became jumbled, seemed distant compared to his frantic heartbeat.

_Is it over?_

The adrenaline pumping through his system made it difficult to concentrate on much of anything. His muscles were still tingling with impact, still tense from the effort of retaliation.

_Did I win?_

His unfocused gaze fell upon Asuka, a mound of glistening flesh lying a foot or so away. She was on her side, knees drawn up to her chest, motionless since her body's collision with the arena.

Then, without warning, someone appeared beside him. A hand grasped his wrist, forced it upward. The proctor, he realized, was declaring him the winner of the tournament.

Hwoarang felt a simultaneous rush of relief and anxiety. He and Jin would soon have the prize, as well as a surplus of cash he could put toward fixing his motorcycle, buying binoculars and other spying equipment—whatever.

For once, it seemed like things might actually go his way after all.

If it had occurred even a split second sooner, he surely would've missed it. Hwoarang's dark eyes flitted back to Asuka for just a moment and glimpsed a twitch of her right arm.

Motions painfully slow, she pulled the hem of her skirt so that it rested conservatively on the back of her thighs, blocking his previously revealing view.

He smirked.

**x x x**

"Like I said before, Kazama," Hwoarang boasted, "This thing was a piece of pie—absolutely nothing to worry about."

He gestured to the pristine envelope in which he'd been given the prize money. "Now, thanks to _me_, we can be on our way with this gorgeous reward."

Jin offered him a short shake of the head. "I wouldn't be so pretentious if I were you. You don't know—"

"Why you're so uptight?" Hwoarang interrupted with a grin, "No one knows that. It's one of life's greatest mysteries."

His companion sighed. "Fine, but don't expect me to lend a hand when you get cornered by a mugger."

Hwoarang closed his eyes for a prolonged time and allowed himself to be placed in a sort of trance by the softly blowing breeze. The brisk coolness of the night air grazed his once aching muscles and reminded him with an admonishing hand that not so long ago his pores had been sweating beneath the blinding spotlight, his body pushed to the brink of exhaustion.

He sucked in a deep breath, inviting the crisp air into his now steady lungs and with it hope for survival. His orbs eased open and brought the darkened sky before them, a canopy devoid of any spots of light.

It was then that he realized he hadn't an idea of what time it was. He reveled in the ignorance; it provided him with a tamed freedom he wasn't accustomed to.

He paused, glancing back at the entrance to the building in which the tournament had been held. When he first arrived, he'd been bombarded by thoughts of failure and dependence. But then, as he stood with his back to the heavy metal doors, he felt nothing but relief—and a mounting desire to celebrate.

"Hey."

Silence.

"Kazama."

Jin eyed him suspiciously. "I don't like where this is going."

"I haven't even said anything yet," Hwoarang shot back, a grinning stealing across his lips.

"I can tell it isn't going to be pleasant by your be-a-jackass-and-do-something-utterly-stupid-with-me tone."

"Wasn't aware I had one of those," Hwoarang replied with austere bewilderment, earning him a skeptical frown.

"Anyway," he went on, "I think we passed a club on the way here."

Jin's frown deepened considerably. "I _knew_ it."

"What?" responded Hwoarang innocently, "I'm merely suggesting we take a break from all this heroic business, maybe pick up a few girls—we could draw a face on a broom for you, of course."

Jin was far from amused.

"Thought you were a sober, changed man," he scoffed.

Hwoarang dismissed his statement with a wave of the hand.

"Hasn't anyone ever told you that you don't need to drink to have fun? Besides," he added smoothly, "I need to be coherent in order to service the mob of lovely ladies."

"And just _why_ do I associate myself with you again?" Jin deadpanned.

"Honestly, Kazama, was the word 'humor' never added to your vocabulary?"

Built arms folded across the Japanese man's chest. "I don't think either of us is in any condition to go out partying at the moment. Setting that moronically apparent observation aside, we should spend the free time formulating some kind of plan or at least doing research—_not _running amuck through the streets."

"Slow down there, shortcake," Hwoarang said, "I know a way to get the break we deserve and gather information for our research at the same time."

"You're bluffing."

Hwoarang chuckled. "If I am, you can have the first girl that tries to hook up with me."

"It's unlike you to put a chance to get laid up for collateral," Jin considered.

Hwoarang motioned to the road on their left with a confident smile.

A low grunt fell from Jin's lips, and he knew he'd won.

"As long as we'll be doing _some_thing productive," muttered Jin, "But we won't stay long. We need to get some sleep and recharge our energy. I assume you're going to use money from your cut to cover the expense?"

"_We_-ll," Hwoarang started, "Since I need to fix my bike, and you don't have a life—"

"No."

"Come on!"

"Use the extra money you got from pick-pocketing earlier," Jin told him, "The total cost shouldn't go over that amount."

Hwoarang wasn't exactly satisfied with the solution, but knew his counterpart would attempt to back out if he stressed the issue. So, instead of continuing to argue, he mumbled a barely audile insult or two and moved to shove the envelope in his pocket.

"Hand it over."

The Korean blinked.

"The prize," Jin insisted, "Give it to me."

"Why should I?" retorted Hwoarang.

"I'll keep it safe until we leave the club. _I_ won't lose it."

"Neither will I," Hwoarang remarked defiantly, brandishing the envelope, "Do you really think I'm stupid enough to misplace ten thousand—"

His fingers slipped over the smooth material and found themselves unoccupied a second later. He cast a reluctant glance over his shoulder. A pure white face stared back at him from the place on the ground the envelope had landed.

"Just jinxed myself," Hwoarang stated with a lopsided grin, "That doesn't count."

He turned toward where the envelope had fluttered, but stopped short. A difference face had greeted him; a human one with guarded cunning and slight resentment running deeply through.

"Thanks, bud," Hwoarang spoke up, extending an expectant hand.

His opposition was a younger man, though his eyes possessed such disorder they appeared to be twice the age of the rest of his body. His gaze was morally and almost literally torn, much unlike the unmarked envelope he cradled in his palm.

"You wanna hand that over before things get ugly?"

Noting the tightening grip the other man was applying to his reward, Hwoarang clenched the outstretched fist.

"You won't get me to admit you were right," he seethed.

Jin's expression became taut. "Six o'clock."

Looking in the designated direction, Hwoarang gritted his teeth at the sight of a crowd of people creeping slowly, so slowly, around them.

As the group surrounded them, he studied each visage almost disbelievingly. Spotting a familiar figure amidst the threatening obstruction, he raised a finger in concurrent accusation and alarm.

"Even the creepy old lady?"

The substitute receptionist stood nearby, the amethyst stars swinging from her ears just as tacky as they'd been earlier that evening in spite of the ever-prominent moonlight.

"You two know each other?" asked Jin, a disparaged tone sliding effortlessly from his mouth.

"Don't wanna talk about it."

Hwoarang had taken attention away from his back, an oversight that didn't go unnoticed by a member of the encroaching ring. A middle-aged man seemed to betray the conformity of the crowd and leapt forward.

The man's trajectory made it clear he was going to miss his mark almost entirely. It was as though he weren't aiming for the Korean at all.

The rather strange reflection, however, didn't make much of a difference because before Hwoarang had an opportunity to react, the oncoming assault was thwarted by the sidelong push of a forceful hand.

Glancing back, his eyes met those of a blue so bright they might have been creepy if he hadn't gazed into them before.

"Nice of you to show up," Hwoarang commented for the second time that evening.

Steve flashed a grin over the now startled man's shoulder. "I thought so, too."

**x x x**

"It seems that group was after your money," Steve pointed out, straightening from his fighting stance.

"Wow," a sarcastic Hwoarang replied, "I never would have guessed."

"Smartass," Jin murmured, "If only you were smart_ enough_ to know people attending an unregulated tournament aren't going to let the winner leave quietly."

"Oh _yeah_? Well—fuck you!"

Steve observed the futile argument with a raised brow.

"_I'll_ take that," said Jin, his digits finding the envelope and snatching it from the other's hand.

Hwoarang snorted stubbornly.

"I must say," Steve chimed in, "I didn't expect to see you two hanging around here together."

"We've decided to put aside our differences for the greater good."

"For the most part, anyway," Hwoarang interjected, "He's still jealous of me. Can't really blame the guy, though—good looks, charming personality, superior fighting skills—what's there not to be bitter about?"

"And the greater good continues to shrink in precedence with every passing second."

Steve chuckled. "Is that so? May I ask what brought about such a compromise?"

Sensing an uneasy shift in Jin's visage, Hwoarang acknowledged the need for a change of subject. "What brings _you_ here, anyway? Thought you'd already gone back to England."

The champion boxer shook his head. "Not yet. When I heard about this competition, I decided to stick around a tad longer—for the sheer passion of fighting, you know."

A palpable silence fell over them, pregnant with the understanding that there were unspoken reasons behind each of the three men's actions. The calming quiet was marked only by the sound of whispered rustling as Jin took up the task of nudging the unconscious folded bodies in his vicinity with his foot to ensure their enduced slumber.

After a few minutes, Hwoarang cleared his throat. "Sorry about the whole crushing your arm incident, man."

"No worries," Steve replied, "The pain was only temporary. I'm just lucky you aren't Ganryu."

"And about calling you a bitch."

"Again, no worries, mate."

"And, uh—sorry for saying that shit about your mother."

Steve grinned. "Now _that_ I'm going to have to kill you for."

"Better get in line, then," Hwoarang responded with a smirk.

Though slightly confused, Steve laughed. "I hate to have to cut our bonding time short, gentlemen, but I'm afraid I've got to head back to my flat and prepare for the long trip home."

"Safe flight," Jin said with a curt nod.

"Train harder so it won't be so easy for me to win next time," remarked Hwoarang.

Steve turned on his heel and walked away, holding his right middle finger high over his shoulder.


	10. Just a Minor Setback

**CHAPTER TEN! **Just a Minor Setback

* * *

"Now _this_ is what I'm talking about."

Heat emanated from the sweating, dancing bodies in their vicinity, confronting them with a torrent of suffocating mustiness. The air was possessed by unmistakable humidity and the faint scent of intoxicated tongues.

Jin made a face. "Is this really what you call a good time?"

Hwoarang barely heard his chiding over the pounding of the overhead speakers and the rhythmic zoning of his attention. It didn't take long for him to spot exactly what he wanted—a group of three young women standing with their backs to the turntables, each pair of hands sporting an identical martini.

"_Definitely_ a good time," he replied, rubbing eager hands together.

Jin regarded him sternly. Noting this, Hwoarang shot an inquisitive glance at his companion.

"You should gather the information first," Jin said, "That's why we're here in the first place, remember?"

"No," Hwoarang mumbled.

"Unless, of course, you're willing to give up that blonde," a snide Jin remarked.

"Low blow." Hwoarang winced as the pale-haired woman in question raised a toothpick bearing an olive to her slightly parted lips. "_Damn_, that's a low blow."

**x x x**

"Well?" Jin inquired with a small frown, "I'm teetering on the edge of my seat waiting to hear this plan of yours."

Hwoarang did not answer. He instead opted to continue surveying the many rows of glass bottles lining the shelves behind the sturdy bar counter. The samples of alcohol retained his silent judgment, smiling at him beneath the swirling beams of colored light drizzling from the dark ceiling.

Jin dropped his tone. "I really don't see how getting drunk is going to contribute to our mission."

"That, my friend, is because you refuse to think outside the box."

Hwoarang gestured to the bartender, beckoning him with a nonchalant wave of the hand.

**x x x**

Hwoarang inspected the bottle briefly before removing the cap, initiating a crisp popping noise as the internal seal gave way. He offered its contents to his counterpart.

"What am I supposed to do with that?"

The Korean blinked. "Drink it."

"Sure. Right after you shave your head."

Hwoarang remained still and watched him silently, expectantly.

"You're serious?" Jin scoffed, "Why would I do that? And, more importantly, why are we in the bathroom?"

The restroom was certainly less than hospitable in appearance. Misted grime stole their reflections from the mirror in front of them, hanging loosely above a slightly rusted sink. Empty bottles crowded sections of the floor, having overflowed the trashcan to their left.

"And you say _I'm_ uncooperative," Hwoarang sighed, "If I hadn't sobered up I would have chugged this by now. I don't see what the big deal is."

"The big deal is that the concept is pointless."

"I need the bottle to be empty, and there's no way in hell I'm dumping it down the drain and wasting my money."

"Get someone else to drink it," an unwilling Jin retorted.

"As much as I'd love to get herpes, rabies, and whatever else these people might have," the redhead responded, "It has to be a secret operation. The aim is for everyone to think that _I'm_ the one who drank it. That's why we're in here."

Jin narrowed his eyes. "This plan is asinine."

"We don't have time to stand around and talk about asses," Hwoarang snapped, "Are you gonna do it or not?"

Jin's gaze moved to the beverage in disdain.

"Hold on." Hwoarang's face brightened. "You _have_ drank beer before, haven't you?"

"All the time," spat Jin, "Between running for my life, training, competing, and dealing with idiots like you, I always find time to visit a seedy bar or two."

"Wow," Hwoarang mused, "I'm gonna be the first person to witness the one and only Kazama under the influence. I should be honored."

"I never said I—"

Hwoarang thrust the bottle into the hands of his companion. "Cheers!"

**x x x**

"That should do it," said the Korean triumphantly, inspecting the bottle beneath the artificial lighting, "Pretty sure I've washed all of your pity party germs off."

Jin remained silent, one hand massaging his temple.

Hwoarang held the bottle beneath his nose for a moment, then leaned to line up the mouth with the faucet.

"I think I drank that too quickly," Jin groaned.

Once he was satisfied with the level of tap water in the bottle, Hwoarang smiled. "Now, with some convincing acting, I'll look like I'm plastered."

"I still don't see what any of this has to do with obtaining information."

Hwoarang's grin broadened. "Everyone trusts a drunk man."

"That makes no damn sense," Jin pushed through his teeth.

"Sure it does," Hwoarang defended, "People confide in drunkards and psychologists because they won't remember what they were told in the morning. They can shovel the guilt off their chests without having to worry about repercussions.

"As for you, find something to occupy yourself a safe distance away from me. We don't want anyone to get suspicious."

"No one's going to get suspicious because your strategy is stupid," Jin insisted.

"You know, I always thought you'd be an angry drunk."

**x x x**

A lapse of ten minutes found Hwoarang lingering near the back of the club, passively surveying the population inside.

The handful of people seated at the bar caught his attention. A couple of middle-aged women on the far end of the counter, attempting to chat up the bartender—no good. A couple of teenage guys hovering around the opposing end, ogling the women—definitely no good.

Then he saw him, the depiction of a worn-down businessman. Even from across the room, Hwoarang could see a stiff tension in his movements that could only be attributed to acute timidity or paranoia.

_And we have a winner._

Hwoarang approached the bar area and claimed the stool on the man's right. He slammed the tinted bottle down on the countertop, mindful of the intense splash that followed.

"No more of these for me, barkeep," he slurred loudly to the bartender who was both out of hearing range and not paying attention, "Stuff's starting to seep through my clothes."

He pivoted abruptly, seemingly noticing the man beside him for the first time. "Had a rough day at the office. Where I work. In an office building."

The businessman glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, but said nothing.

"In fact, I still have a lot of paperwork to finish," Hwoarang went on, "I only showed up tonight because a buddy of mine told me to meet him here."

He paused. "Well, you look like you roll with the tightest of circles; you might know him. Kind of tall, really bright blue eyes, likes leather jackets."

That seemed to raise alarm in the man's visage. He slightly, so slightly, turned to Hwoarang.

"The leader of the Slick Six?"

The Korean took a sip of the tap water in his bottle, squeezing his eyes shut for effect. "The one and only."

"Six? You mean five," he added after wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

The businessman gave a laconic shake of the head and shifted restlessly.

"I get it. You must be counting the dead guy."

"One of them was killed?"

"Yeah."

Then, softer; "Not too many people know about it. Confidential shit right there."

The man did a brief once-over of his surroundings, then allowed his gaze to fall upon the beer bottle between them. A defensive Hwoarang snatched the beverage and took another swig, a prolonged one this time.

"The bastard ought to have been here by now. If he isn't here in ten minutes, I'm gonna go over to their headquarters and give him a piece of my mind!"

_I'd like to thank the Academy._

The businessman appeared reluctant, yet curious.

"Is it true they took over the karaoke joint two streets over?"

"That's the place," Hwoarang replied, stretching, "You'll have to excuse me. So many hot babes, so many phone numbers, so little time. Obligation waits for no man."

**x x x**

"You can thank me later."

"I don't understand."

"It's the address of the gang's headquarters," said Hwoarang matter-of-factly, "Took a while for me to coax it out of the guy, but I did it."

"But that's superfluous!" Jin snarled in annoyance.

"Relax," Hwoarang countered, "We weren't anywhere near a black cat."

Jin pushed two fingers against the bridge of his nose.

"I got us a useful piece of research, if I do say so myself," Hwoarang pointed out, "I guess that means my _work_ here is done."

"What're you going to do now?"

"What I do best," remarked Hwoarang confidently, "Go get that broom of yours. You're cramping my style."

**x x x**

"So there I was, surrounded by twenty angry biker guys," Hwoarang explained.

"Poor baby. What happened?"

He hesitated, consulting the young brunette's skirt—or lack thereof.

"I took them down, one by one," Hwoarang answered with an easy smirk, "They were no match for me."

"Of course they weren't," the blonde chimed in, resting a hand on his arm with feather-light intent.

"Yeah, I don't work out at all," Hwoarang stated smoothly, casually rolling up his sleeves and flexing, "It's all natural."

Another man suddenly joined their congregation, rather clumsily at that. He walked into the brunette with such force, she was nearly knocked over. Regaining what remaining threads of composure he had, he stumbled beside Hwoarang, slinging an elbow up on his shoulder for support.

"Hey, Whore-ang," Jin shouted at an unnecessary volume, "I lost the money!"

"Don't mind this guy, ladies," Hwoarang tried, "I don't even know—"

His eyes widened in realization. "What did you just say?"

"I lost the money," Jin repeated with a lopsided grin.

Hwoarang scoffed dismissively.

"You're bullshitting me. He's bullshitting me," he told the now disgruntled blonde.

Jin shook his head and moved closer, as if preparing to whisper.

"I gave it—to—" He trailed off, motioning with a limp hand.

"You reek, man," Hwoarang growled.

"I know." Jin's tone was almost a whimper. "It's seeping through my clothes!"

"It's seeping through your—?"

Hwoarang grasped a fistful of his shirt and pulled him out of earshot of the women.

"Where is my—_our_ money?" the Korean demanded.

Jin yanked himself free, his face contorted. "It's mine! I'm the one who found it."

Hwoarang furrowed his brows. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"I found a quarter on the floor over there—the shiniest quarter I've ever seen. It was in my pocket, and now it's gone. I must have put it somewh—ouch!"

"Motherfucker," Hwoarang murmured, lowering the hand he'd used to thump Jin on the back of the head.

He watched his accomplice stagger slightly. "How many drinks have you had?"

"_Te_-leven," noted Jin after a thoughtful pause.

_No wonder he's acting so strange._

"All right, alcoholic," Hwoarang sighed, "I think it's time for you to go home."

**x x x**

"Consider yourself lucky, Kazama," Hwoarang said, reluctantly stepping aside as a mildly delirious Jin ambled into the apartment, "If it weren't for you helping me, I'd be making you sleep on the sidewalk somewhere."

"Oh yeah?" Jin argued, glaring at him, "You're dumb."

"I'm not the one who mistook his house key for a quarter," retorted Hwoarang, locking the door behind them, "Your place is gonna be ransacked the next time you see it, I hope you know."

"You're still _dumb_."

"And to think, I could be spending the night with a gorgeous girl," Hwoarang responded through gritted teeth.

Jin slowly lowered himself onto the couch, a vigilant eye cast behind him as though he believed the seat was going to move out from under him at any moment.

"I don't feel very good," he muttered, wearily rolling his head back.

"If you piss or puke on those cushions, I swear I'll call Xiao and tell her you masturbate to panda sex."


	11. Morning After

**A/N: **I've never been on a plane before, so I'm not educated in airport procedure. Let's just pretend, shall we? xP

**

* * *

**

**CHAPTER ELEVEN! **Morning After

* * *

_Running his hand over the bed, he felt the smoothness of satin puncture the increasingly warm flesh on his palm. Indeed, his body temperature was rising steadily, his pulse quickening with each passing second, and he welcomed the abrupt cool sensation that often accompanied unoccupied sheets._

_Having to wait for her to come out of the adjoining bathroom was proving to be quite torturous._

_When toying with the tassels dangling from her pillows failed to distract him, he cleared his throat._

_No reaction._

_Again, this time a tad louder._

"_I'm almost ready!" came an encouraging shout from behind the whitewood Great Wall._

_He fidgeted._

"_I'll be out in a minute," she continued, sensing his skepticism, "I promise."_

_He smirked, reminding himself that his patience would be well-rewarded. After all, a pretty girl doesn't invite a guy into her bedroom and expect nothing to happen between them, right?_

_Right?_

_Now that he had time to think about it, he wasn't so sure. Considering the young woman in question, their rendezvous could turn out to be entirely innocent._

_What the hell? If he wasn't going to be getting any, she should at least hurry up and let him know the real reason she'd invited him to her hotel room already!_

_The door eased open. _

_Hers was a figure he'd seen many times, usually hidden beneath unflattering training clothes; yet this was somehow different. It was as though he were seeing her for the first time. Though the pink pajamas she'd changed into weren't exactly seductive, they were much more fitted to her frame and, dare he say, slightly revealing._

_She lingered in the doorframe, shyly redirecting her attention to a stray strand curving against her chin. _

_It occurred to him that, until then, he'd never seen her with her hair down._

"_I'm sure you're wondering why I asked you to come," she began, nerves evident in her voice._

_He managed a light chuckle. "This isn't a student council meeting. Sit." He gestured to the empty space on his left._

_She sat next to him on the bed, gaze still avoiding his. "I'm sorry. It was dumb of me to drag you here. You don't have to stay."_

"_You didn't drag me anywhere," he assured her._

_Turning to look him in the eye, she offered a sweet smile._

"_What's this all about, anyway?" He grinned. "Should I be worried?"_

"_No. Not really." She sighed. "Maybe."_

"_A woman of mystery, huh? I appreciate that."_

"_It's just—" she tried, "There's something—and I couldn't think of any other way—I mean, I'm not very good at this."_

"_If by _this_ you mean being vague, you're sadly mistaken," he told her. _

_Without warning, she placed a hand on either side of his face and crashed her lips against his. She pulled back, arms falling to her sides, before his brain had a chance to process her actions._

_She snatched her bottom lip between her front teeth as a stunned expression dawned on his face._

_Recovering, he swallowed thickly. "What—was that for?"_

"_I'd never kissed anyone before," she confessed, "I wanted you to be my first."_

_The escalating heartbeat returned._

"_I know you don't think of me that way," she continued guiltily, "I shouldn't have—"_

_He kissed her again. He needed to. The sensation was overwhelming, liberating. It made him extremely grateful for satin sheets and his choice to wear loose-fitting pants._

_As his hand found her hair, he officially pushed the reality of the situation beyond the reach of his senses. __The past, the future, time itself meant nothing. He willed himself to believe it._

_He would deal with the repercussions later. In that moment, he wanted only the happiness he'd been denying himself._

_And he would have it._

_A moan rose in his throat, and he spoke, though the word sounded so distant._

"_Xiaoyu."_

**x x x**

"Xiaoyu!" Jin's frantic yell startled Hwoarang out of a deep sleep.

Squinting through the darkness blanketing his room, he read the clock on his nightstand. Two in the morning.

"Help!" shrieked Jin from the living room.

"You've got to be kidding me," Hwoarang murmured, reluctantly climbing out of bed.

"Someone help!"

"I'm coming, I'm coming," snapped a drowsy Hwoarang.

Two steps into the living room, the redhead tripped over a large heap and landed rather ungracefully.

"Son of a bitch!" he bellowed, quickly realizing that the obstacle was Jin in the fetal position, "What're you doing on the floor?"

"I was having a dream—about Xiaoyu," Jin answered slowly, as if he himself were trying to piece it all together.

"That's funny," Hwoarang retorted, "So was I, until _some_one decided to wake me up with their screaming."

Jin groaned as he crawled back to the couch from which he'd fallen. "She was in danger. The aliens were going to land their spaceship and track her down so they could use her in one of their experiments."

"Fascinating."

"What was yours about?"

"Huh?"

"Your dream."

"Oh," replied Hwoarang casually, "Nothing special."

**x x x**

"Let me guess," the Korean mused, raking both hands through sleep-mussed hair as he entered the living room, "You feel like Ganryu sat on you. Killer headache, blowing chunks—the whole nine yards."

Jin, propped up against the pillow he'd used the night before and skimming through channels on the television set, shook his head.

Hwoarang stopped. "No?"

"Getting through the night was a bit rough, but I'm perfectly fine now," Jin explained.

He settled on a station, flinching as late morning sunlight glared off of the screen and assaulted his eyes. "What kind of show is this?"

Hwoarang consulted the television and smirked. "A mud-wrestling match, obviously."

Jin moved to change the channel.

"What the hell are you doing?" Hwoarang barked in annoyance.

"I'm not going to watch two women disgrace themselves on national television," Jin argued.

"They're not disgracing themselves! That's what Jerry Springer is for," Hwoarang responded, "Besides, I'm sure you'd think differently if one of them was Xiaoyu."

Jin scowled, but dropped the remote. "You're barbaric."

"You're too kind," said Hwoarang, taking a seat at the small table housing his laptop.

Jin eyed the computer. "Now would be an opportune time to book us those plane tickets."

"Keep your pants on," Hwoarang remarked dismissively, coaxing the laptop from its digital slumber, "I'm two steps ahead of you."

He absently navigated to the airline's website, mind focused on the action displayed on the television set. One woman, attempting to grab her opponent's hair, grasped the back of her string bikini instead, unfastening the knot.

"Did you see that?" exclaimed Hwoarang, knocking the mouse onto the carpet.

"Sounds to me like you're the one who needs to keep their pants on," Jin scolded, "Is that the only thing you know how to think with?"

Rolling his eyes, the redhead retrieved the mouse. "For your information, I'm doing a pretty kick-ass job over here."

He gestured to the laptop. "Behold—a confirmation screen."

"We're all set, then?"

Hwoarang nodded. "The tickets are temporarily reserved for us. All we have to do is go there, pay, and pick up the tickets."

A pause. "Seriously though, did you see that? Her top almost came off!"

**x x x**

"Are you sure we have enough time to be doing this?"

Hwoarang shoved a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth. He tried to answer while chewing, but his words came out garbled.

He swallowed. "As much as _you _might like the shit they serve on planes, _I_ actually have a stomach, and it enjoys real food."

"What I mean is," Jin glowered, "We ought to be going to the airport to claim our tickets."

"Sorry, can't hear you over the crunching of this delicious bacon."

"Juvenile." Jin did a brief once-over of the diner in which they sat before reaching into his pocket. "Well, if we're going to be here for a while, we might as well do something productive."

Observing the warehouse blueprint yawned and stretched out on the table before him, Hwoarang felt a lump form in his throat that he was pretty sure had nothing to do with the strip of bacon he'd just ate.

Somewhere between the thrill of the underground tournament, the heat of the dance club, and the invigorating mud-wrestling, he'd nearly forgotten what they were setting out to accomplish in the first place.

"We should study this and determine the supplies we're going to need," Jin pointed out in a hushed tone, "It makes more sense to wait until we're in America to purchase them—we won't appear suspicious to airport security—but we'll at least be prepared."

"I'm gonna get a flamethrower."

Jin glanced from the blueprint to his accomplice. "Why would you need one of those?"

Hwoarang shrugged. "I've always wanted one."

"You're not getting a flamethrower," insisted Jin.

"Whatever."

"The front door's got an instant re-locking mechanism installed in it," Jin told him, "It doesn't have a keyhole or even a handle; the only way to gain access is by entering a specific code into the hidden control panel.

"Once you get through the door, if at all, the internal locks snap into place. There has to be a second keypad inside the warehouse for those. We have no way of knowing if both codes are the same."

"In other words, the front door isn't the best option," reasoned Hwoarang, "How about windows?"

"Only one," Jin replied, "And it's protected by a grid of alarm-triggering lasers."

Hwoarang supplied muffled input, consuming another mouthful of eggs.

"Now, unfortunately, the room designated for the stone is on the opposite side of the building," Jin went on, "We'll have to go through this hallway, which has heat sensors built into the walls."

"No problem."

"No problem?"

"We can cool ourselves down to keep the sensors from going off," the Korean said.

"And how do you suggest we do that?" responded Jin.

Hwoarang leaned forward slightly. "I once drank like ten slurpees in a row." He motioned to the side of his head. "Brain was frozen for _days_."

"That's—great," Jin ground out, "In any case, once we get past that, we've got full access to the Naibun stone."

"What about the case?" Hwoarang mentioned, munching on a second piece of bacon.

Jin checked the blueprint over. "I don't see anything here about a case."

"That's the trick." Hwoarang waved the bacon for emphasis. "The stone's got to be in a case. Think about it. The old man wouldn't go through all the trouble of having this high-tech crap put in if he was just going to leave the thing lying around."

"Even if you're right, there aren't any construction plans for it," Jin answered, "We don't know what it's made of."

"We know it can't be a vault," Hwoarang remarked, "It's most likely glass. I can kick it in."

"Hold on, Jackie Chan. We won't know for sure until we're standing in front of it. We'll just have to roll with the punches on that one."

"If I had a flamethrower, we wouldn't have to worry," muttered Hwoarang.

"You're not getting a flamethrower," Jin repeated sternly.

**x x x**

"You're sure you got roundtrip tickets?" Jin asked for the umpteenth time since they'd arrived at the airport.

Hwoarang rolled his eyes.

They approached the main desk and were greeted by young man who looked as though he'd had one too many cups of coffee.

"Good morning! How may I help you?"

Hwoarang made a face. "We need our tickets."

"Of course!" The man turned to his computer. "What name is the reservation under?"

"Kazama comma Pussy."

"He's joking," Jin chimed in hurriedly, watching in disbelief as the clerk prepared to type, "It's Jin. Jin Kazama."

"Passports, please," the young man requested brightly.

As he verified their identities, a nearby printer buzzed to life and spat out tickets.

"And how will you be paying?"

"Cash," replied Hwoarang, dropping the appropriate amount of bills onto the counter.

"Here you are, gentlemen," the clerk responded, handing each of them a ticket, "Two coach tickets to New York."

Jin furrowed his brows. "New York?"

The man nodded curtly, consulting his computer screen. "Manhattan, New York—the destination you selected on the ordering form."

"There must be some sort of mistake," Jin told him, "We booked tickets to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania."

"I apologize. I would exchange your seats, but unfortunately the only flight leaving for Philadelphia today is full."

Hwoarang let out a nervous laugh. "I must have clicked on the wrong option by accident."

"I _knew_ you weren't paying attention!"

"Relax, will ya? New York isn't far from Pennsylvania; we can rent a car and drive the rest of the way."

Jin frowned. "We _do_ have a time limit, you know."

"Yeah, and if we don't get on this plane, we'll miss the deadline by a whole day," said Hwoarang, "Road trip, here we come!"

"I officially hate you."


End file.
